The old hospital had stood at the edge of the town for over a century, its windows dark and its halls silent. No one knew exactly when it had closed, but rumors swirled like dust in the air—of patients who never left, of doctors who vanished without a trace, of whispers that echoed through empty rooms long after the lights had gone out. Most people avoided it, but some couldn’t help but wonder. Lena was one of them. A young woman with a fascination for forgotten places, she had heard the stories from her grandmother, who once worked as a nurse there. The tales were always vague, spoken in hushed tones, as if the words themselves carried a weight too heavy to be said aloud. But Lena was curious. She wanted to see it for herself. She arrived on a misty morning, the fog clinging to the ground like a living thing. The gates creaked open as if they had been waiting for her. Inside, the silence was thick, almost tangible. The air smelled of mildew and something older, something that didn’t belong to any time she knew. She walked through the main hall, where chipped floor tiles told stories of years past. A single light flickered above her head, casting long shadows that seemed to move just out of sight. In the basement, she found a door labeled "Restricted." It was rusted, the handle cold to the touch. She pushed it open, and the smell of blood hit her instantly, sharp and metallic. Inside, there were rows of old medical equipment, all covered in dust. On the far wall, a mirror stood alone, its frame warped and cracked. Lena approached it, only to see her reflection staring back—but her eyes were not her own. They were hollow, black, and full of something that made her stomach twist. She turned away, heart pounding, and stumbled into a corridor that hadn’t been there before. The walls were lined with photographs, each one depicting different patients, all with the same blank expression. Some were smiling, others crying, but none of them looked real. When she reached the end of the hallway, she found a small room with a single bed. The sheets were clean, but the pillow was wet, as if someone had just lain there. She sat down, expecting to feel the mattress, but her hands went through it like it wasn’t there. A voice whispered in her ear, low and soft, “You shouldn’t have come here.” Lena spun around, but no one was there. The room felt colder now, the air heavier. She ran back through the corridors, the walls seeming to close in around her. The exit doors were gone, replaced by more hallways, each one more familiar than the last. She tried to remember the way she came, but every turn led her deeper into the maze. Hours passed—or maybe minutes. Time lost meaning in the hospital’s grip. She found a staircase leading up, and climbed it, breath ragged. At the top, she stepped into a large, circular room filled with mirrors. Each one showed a different version of her: some younger, some older, some with faces she didn’t recognize. One of them smiled at her, then raised a hand and pointed toward a door behind her. She turned, and there it was—a door that hadn’t been there before. She opened it, and the world outside was the same as when she entered, but the hospital was gone. The trees, the sky, the sun—it was all the same, yet somehow different. She stood on the edge of the forest, clutching the memory of what she had seen. Back in town, no one believed her. They said she had wandered off, that the hospital had been abandoned for decades. But Lena kept thinking about the mirrors, the voices, the strange door that led nowhere and everywhere at once. She began to notice things in the world around her—people who stared too long, reflections that moved without their bodies, moments that felt just a little off. One night, she woke to find herself standing in front of the hospital again, the gate creaking open as if inviting her back. She hesitated, then took a step forward. The door was still there, waiting. And somewhere inside, she could hear a voice whispering, “Welcome home.”