The old hospital had been abandoned for over thirty years, its rusted gates creaking in the wind like a whisper of forgotten souls. No one knew exactly when it had closed, but rumors swirled about strange occurrences—patients who never left, doctors who vanished without a trace, and nurses who spoke in voices that weren’t their own. The town had long since moved on, but some still claimed to hear the distant sound of a heartbeat echoing from the building at midnight. One autumn evening, a young journalist named Clara decided to investigate. She had heard the stories as a child, but now she wanted to uncover the truth. Armed with a flashlight, a notebook, and a camera, she approached the hospital with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. The front doors groaned as she pushed them open, revealing a dimly lit lobby covered in dust. A chandelier hung crookedly from the ceiling, its crystals dull and cracked. The air smelled of mildew and something else—something faintly metallic, like old blood. As she stepped inside, her footsteps echoed unnaturally, as if the building itself were listening. She wandered through the empty hallways, her flashlight casting flickering shadows on the peeling wallpaper. The walls were lined with faded photographs of patients, many of whom looked lost, their eyes hollow. In one room, a medical chart lay open on a desk, the name scrawled in messy handwriting: "Patient 47." The date was decades old, yet the ink had not faded. In the basement, she found a storage room filled with old medical equipment. A rusted gurney sat in the corner, its wheels frozen in place. On the wall, someone had carved the word "Remember" in deep, jagged lines. As she touched the carving, a chill ran down her spine, though the air was warm. She turned off her flashlight, and for a moment, the room was pitch black. Then, a soft hum filled the air, like a lullaby sung by an unseen voice. It wasn’t loud, but it was there, persistent and gentle. Clara’s breath caught in her throat. She turned back on the light, and the sound stopped. She told herself it was just the wind, but the silence that followed felt heavier than before. In the main ward, she found a row of empty beds, each with a small plaque at the foot. Most had names, but one read "No Name." She knelt beside it, brushing away the dust. Beneath it, she found a hidden compartment. Inside was a journal, its pages yellowed and brittle. The entries were written in a shaky hand, describing strange dreams, patients who disappeared overnight, and a doctor who refused to leave the hospital even after his shift ended. One entry stood out: "They don’t want to be found. They don’t want to remember. But I do." Clara’s hands trembled as she closed the journal. She didn’t know why, but she felt certain that the person who wrote it had never left the hospital. She turned to leave, but the door slammed shut behind her. The lights flickered, and the temperature dropped instantly. A low, rhythmic sound filled the air—like a heartbeat, but slower, deeper. She pressed her ear against the door, trying to make sense of it. Then, a voice whispered, not in English, but in a language she didn’t recognize. It wasn’t threatening, just... curious. Like it was asking a question she couldn’t answer. The door creaked open again, and she stumbled into the hallway, gasping for breath. She ran past the empty rooms, past the photos, past the gurney, until she reached the front entrance. She didn’t look back. The moment she stepped outside, the humming stopped, and the air felt lighter. She didn’t write about what she saw. Instead, she kept the journal hidden in her backpack, unsure if she could ever fully understand it. But sometimes, when she closed her eyes, she could still hear that heartbeat, faint and steady, echoing from somewhere deep within the building. And she wondered—were they waiting for someone to find them? Or were they waiting for someone to forget?