The hallway pulsed like a living throat.
Every photo on the walls stared at me — not just the faces, but the eyes in them.
They moved.
Not with animation, but with recognition.
They knew me.
Or worse — they remembered what I forgot.
I stepped out of Room 616.
The door didn't close behind me.
It stayed open. Beckoning. Like it knew I'd return.
---
I walked slowly down the corridor, drawn toward something I didn't understand.
Each step was muffled, like I was walking on breath.
Or on memories.
The air shimmered, and then the walls changed.
Photos faded into chalk outlines.
Symbols. Names. Some scratched out. Some still wet.
Room numbers flickered and changed like faulty digital clocks.
616… 606… 661… 666…
My fingers brushed a photo labeled:
> Dreamer #72 – Eliana Grey
She looked like me. Same posture. Same dead eyes.
Beneath it, a scratched phrase:
> "She let the dream go too far."
My pulse thundered.
And then I heard a sound I hadn't heard since childhood.
My sister's laugh.
---
It was coming from behind a door.
Room 616-B.
I pressed my ear against it.
More laughter. Then crying. Then a child's voice whispering:
> "I didn't mean to die in here…"
I opened the door.
And I stepped into a room that wasn't a room.
---
It was a forest.
Fog-drenched. The trees black and still. Moonlight bleeding down in thin strands.
In the middle of the forest was a bed. My bed. From childhood.
The exact one. Pink canopy, flower sheets, the old stuffed rabbit that lost its eye the night of the fire.
My sister sat on the bed.
Seven years old. Barefoot. Wearing the pajamas she died in.
She looked up at me.
> "You keep coming back, Mira," she said.
"But you never remember why."
I wanted to run.
But I sat beside her.
Because some part of me knew this had already happened.
Many times.
---
She took my hand. It was cold.
> "The room showed me what you did. But it also showed me what you didn't mean to do."
I couldn't speak.
> "Do you remember what you said to me that night?" she asked.
I shook my head.
She did it for me.
Her lips curled into a smile that wasn't hers.
> "You said, 'It's not real if we're dreaming.' And then you lit the match."
"We never woke up, Mira."
---
The trees around us began to burn.
Silent flames. No crackling. No heat.
But the fire climbed the trunks, devouring the sky, and the ground beneath us split like breaking glass.
My sister gripped my wrist tight.
> "Someone else is dreaming now," she whispered.
> "The Dreamer Before You… he's still here."
I was pulled backward by something unseen.
Through the air. Through a mirror. Through myself.
---
I landed hard on the hotel floor.
Not in my room.
Another one.
Different wallpaper. Rotten carpet. Cigarette smoke baked into the walls.
The mirror across from me was shattered.
But a message had been carved into the wall with fingernails:
> "Dreamer #73: Thomas Vale
Do NOT trust the bed.
If she speaks in your voice, CLOSE YOUR EYES."
---
A photo sat on the floor.
A man's face. Early 30s. Gaunt. Pale.
Eyes missing from the photo — burned out.
Next to it, a single Polaroid:
Me.
Sleeping beside him.
Our hands were joined.
---
The room began to shake. The wallpaper peeled.
From under the bed, something dragged itself out.
Long limbs. Bone snapping with every movement.
It looked up at me—
And it had my face.
It spoke in my voice.
> "You left me here. I'm the version that stayed.
And now I'm taking your place."
---
I screamed.
It lunged.
I grabbed the photo and bit down on it. I don't know why. Instinct? Desperation?
The world ripped.
Colors bled. Mirrors cracked. The floor vanished.
And I was back.
In my room.
616.
Alone.
For now.
---
On the desk was a new note. Typed. No paper. Just text burned into the wood:
> YOU'VE MET HIM.
THE DREAMER BEFORE YOU.
ONLY ONE OF YOU GETS TO WAKE UP.