The old hospital stood at the edge of a forgotten town, its windows cracked and its walls stained with time. No one knew exactly when it had been abandoned, but rumors whispered that it had once been a place of healing, not of death. The townspeople avoided it, speaking in hushed tones about the strange lights that flickered in the upper floors after dark, and the faint whispers that drifted through the empty halls like the breath of something unseen. Eli was a young journalist with a taste for the unusual. He had heard the stories, but he didn’t believe in ghosts. He believed in facts, in truth, in the solid weight of reality. So when he received an anonymous letter offering a "true story" hidden within the hospital’s walls, he couldn’t resist. The letter was written in neat, looping handwriting on yellowed paper, and it simply said: *“Look for the red door.”* He arrived at dusk, the sky painted in shades of bruised violet. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and rusted metal. The hospital loomed before him, its iron gates creaking as if protesting his presence. He pushed them open and stepped inside, the sound of his own footsteps echoing down the long, narrow corridor. The floorboards groaned beneath his weight as he moved deeper into the building. The lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows that seemed to shift when he wasn’t looking. He passed rooms filled with dust-covered medical equipment, broken chairs, and faded posters that no longer held any meaning. At the end of the hall, he found it—a red door, untouched by time, standing alone in the middle of the corridor. It wasn’t locked. When he pushed it open, a cold draft rushed out, carrying with it the faintest hint of lavender. Inside was a small room, barely larger than a closet. A single chair sat in the center, facing a wall covered in peeling paint. On the wall, there was a single word, scratched into the plaster: *“Wait.”* Eli frowned. He turned around, expecting someone else to be there, but the room was empty. He stepped closer, running his fingers over the word. It felt warm, almost alive. Then, without warning, the temperature in the room dropped. His breath formed visible clouds in the air, and the walls seemed to pulse faintly, as if they were breathing. A low hum filled the space, and then a voice—soft, distant, and layered with echoes. “You’re not the first.” Eli spun around, heart pounding. “Who’s there?” The voice came again, more distinct this time. “They all come here. Looking for answers. But none leave the same.” He stepped back, eyes darting around the room. “What are you?” “I am what remains,” the voice replied. “I am the memory of those who never left.” Suddenly, the walls began to shimmer, and the images of people appeared—doctors, nurses, patients—moving in slow motion, their faces frozen in expressions of fear or confusion. Some were trapped in moments of pain, others in quiet despair. Eli watched in stunned silence as the scenes played out, each one more haunting than the last. One image caught his eye: a young woman, her hands pressed against the glass of a window, her face pale and drawn. She looked directly at him, and for a brief moment, their eyes met. Then she vanished, and the room returned to stillness. The voice spoke again. “She was the last to leave. She never found what she was looking for.” Eli’s throat tightened. “What is this place?” “It is a place between worlds,” the voice said. “A place where time forgets to move. Those who enter often lose themselves in the past, searching for something that no longer exists.” He turned to leave, but the door had vanished. In its place was a mirror, reflecting not his image, but the same red room, unchanged. The voice whispered, “You will stay until you understand.” Days passed—though Eli wasn’t sure how many. Time had no meaning here. The voices grew louder, the images more vivid. He saw the history of the hospital, its rise and fall, the mistakes made, the lives lost. And yet, he could not escape. One night, as the room pulsed with a soft, rhythmic glow, he finally understood. The hospital was not just a building—it was a wound, a place where the living and the dead blurred together. It was a place where the past refused to let go, and those who entered became part of its story. He closed his eyes and whispered, “I understand.” The room fell silent. The mirror cracked, and the door reappeared. As he stepped through, the world around him shifted. He was back outside, the sun rising over the town, the air fresh and clean. But something was different. He could still feel the hospital in his bones, a whisper in the back of his mind. He walked away, but the question remained: Had he truly left, or had the hospital taken a piece of him?