𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐗: 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄

CHAPTER 7: In Memory, Always

William moved forward, his back straight, movements smooth. His fingers lightly brushed against the hallway wall, eyes sharp, ears tuned to the faintest shifts. There were faint trails in the dust. A disturbed rug. A half-open door.

He paused at Room 306.

The door was ajar-only slightly. Just enough to be an invitation.

William tilted his head, listening. Nothing. But his gut twisted.

He exhaled quietly, then pushed the door open with his boot.

It creaked.

The room was empty... at first glance. Dust floated in the moonlight like falling ash. The bed was untouched. A wooden chair lay toppled on the floor. Broken glass crunched under his heel.
William inched further into the room.

The silence pressed heavy on his shoulders, too complete to be natural. Even the wind outside seemed to hush as he stepped deeper into the gloom.

The air smelled faintly of old wood, rust, and something... metallic.

He swept the room with his eyes-left to right-trained, methodical. The dresser drawers were pulled out, one hanging at an awkward angle like it had been yanked in a hurry. A half-burned candle stood crooked on the windowsill, wax frozen mid-drip.

His eyes caught something on the floor beside the bed.

Drag marks.

Thin trails through the dust, as though something-or someone-had been pulled. The direction pointed toward the bathroom.

William moved in.

The bathroom door was half-closed. No light. Just the faint glint of ceramic tiles.

He raised his gun slightly, angling himself at the edge of the door, breath steady, heart ticking slow.

Then-

Drip.

A single drop of water hit the sink basin.

He waited.

Another drip.

He pushed the door open with his foot-fast.

Empty.

Just a leaking tap and shattered mirror.
He turned sharply at a faint noise behind him-

But it was only the curtain shifting with the breeze.
He backed out from the room.

***

Est moved cautiously through the narrow corridor. His flashlight beam cut through the dust-filled darkness, scanning every crevice-the crumbling shelves, the mold-stained linen baskets, even the ceiling vents. The air was stale, and each step echoed louder than it should have.

A boiler room door stood half open.

He entered, weapon ready.

Nothing.

No footprints. No signs of recent movement. Just a stillness that bit into his nerves like frost.

He waited-seconds stretching into a minute-then finally turned back. "Dead end," he muttered.

Est stepped back into the hallway, heart still racing from the empty room he just searched.

"Nothing," he said, eyes locking with William's.

William frowned slightly, then tilted his head-listening.

A sound.

Muffled. Like fabric shifting. A low groan.