The rain had not stopped since Arav arrived.It pounded like war drums on the roof of the old lodge, soaking the world in a timeless rhythm that blurred day and night. Room Eleven had become more than a room. It had become a pulse in his mind, and every shadow in it breathed. After the mirror shattered, something changed. The silence wasn't empty anymore. It had texture. It had direction. The kind of silence that carried whispers—so faint, they could be mistaken for wind—but they weren’t. They were names. Whispers of names Arav had never heard before. Yet they scratched at his bones like he was supposed to remember them. That night, the electricity flickered again, but never fully went out. It preferred to die slowly, as if teasing him. The lightbulb blinked in rapid spasms, throwing slices of shadow across the old wooden floor. That floor—he had started noticing it more. Its lines, its patterns, how they seemed to shift slightly each time he looked away. He dropped a coin accidenta...