The old hospital had stood at the edge of the town for over a century, its windows clouded with dust and its halls echoing with the whispers of forgotten patients. No one knew exactly when it had closed, but the locals spoke of it in hushed tones, as if the building itself were alive and watching. Most people avoided the place, especially after dark, when the wind howled through the broken windows like a mournful sigh. One rainy evening, a young journalist named Clara decided to visit the abandoned hospital. She had heard rumors about strange lights flickering inside, and the occasional sound of footsteps on empty floors. Curiosity, more than fear, drove her forward. She carried a flashlight and a notebook, determined to uncover the truth behind the stories. As she stepped through the rusted gate, the air grew colder. The trees around the building seemed to lean inward, as though trying to block out the sight of the crumbling structure. Inside, the smell of mildew and decay filled her nostrils. The floorboards creaked under her weight, and every shadow seemed to stretch longer than it should. She climbed the stairs slowly, the flashlight casting long, jagged shadows on the walls. The second floor was eerily quiet, save for the drip of water from a broken pipe. She found an old nurse’s station, its desk covered in cobwebs and yellowed papers. Among them, she discovered a patient file labeled "Patient 17." The name was smudged, but the notes were disturbingly detailed—descriptions of hallucinations, sleepwalking, and a strange voice that only the patient could hear. Clara turned the page, and something caught her eye. A date, written in shaky handwriting: "October 31st, 1983." That was the same night the hospital had supposedly closed. She flipped through more pages, each one more unsettling than the last. There were records of patients disappearing without a trace, of doctors who never returned from their shifts, and of a mysterious room deep in the basement that no one could find. As she descended into the lower levels, the temperature dropped sharply. Her breath formed clouds in the air, and the flashlight flickered. At the bottom of the stairs, she found a heavy door, its handle rusted and cold to the touch. With a deep breath, she pushed it open. Inside was a small, circular room with a single chair in the center. The walls were lined with mirrors, but none of them reflected her image. Instead, they showed glimpses of other places—hallways she didn’t recognize, faces she couldn’t place, and a child standing in the doorway, watching her. Clara stumbled back, heart pounding. The door slammed shut behind her, and the lights went out. In the darkness, she heard a voice, soft and familiar. It was her own voice, speaking words she hadn’t said. "You shouldn’t have come here," it whispered. She ran, tripping over unseen objects, until she reached the main entrance. The doors were locked, and the windows were now sealed with thick, blackened grime. Panic set in, but then she noticed something strange. The reflections in the windows weren’t just of her. They showed a version of herself standing in the middle of the hospital, smiling softly, as if she had always belonged there. Clara pressed her hands against the glass, her reflection staring back with eyes that were too wide, too knowing. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. The world around her began to blur, and the hospital faded into a swirl of light and shadow. When she finally awoke, she was outside, soaked and shivering, with no memory of how she got there. The hospital was gone, replaced by a field of tall grass. But in the distance, she could still see the faint outline of the building, its windows glowing with a soft, eerie light. She never wrote the story. Instead, she kept the notebook hidden, afraid that if she spoke of it, the hospital would come for her again. But sometimes, in the silence of the night, she hears a whisper in the wind, calling her name. And she wonders—was she ever really free?