One more night.
That's what they whispered through the peephole.
A hundred versions of me.
Some smiling, some crying.
All trapped. All waiting.
I stumbled back, heart slamming against my ribs.
Only one match.
One escape.
But escape from what? Myself?
My guilt?
The room?
Or all of them bound into one thing?
---
The desk lamp flickered.
And then I saw it.
The second bed.
It hadn't been there before.
Now it was across the room from mine — a perfect twin.
Sheets turned down. A pillow fluffed.
Waiting.
I stepped toward it.
There was someone under the blanket.
Asleep.
Breathing softly.
I reached out and pulled the blanket back.
It was me.
But not the version from earlier.
Not Mira-2.
This one looked exactly like I remembered myself the night I lost her.
Tears down the cheeks. Singed pajamas. Soot on my lips.
Mira-1.
The first dreamer.
---
Her eyes opened slowly. Red-rimmed. Exhausted.
But she smiled when she saw me.
> "You're the last one," she whispered.
"Finally."
I couldn't speak. My throat was closing with panic. Guilt. Recognition.
She sat up, and her smile dropped.
> "There's only one way out," she said.
"The bed knows. It remembers every version of us."
> "Only one door opens…
and one of us has to take the other's place."
---
The matchbox in my hand pulsed with warmth.
Use it when the dream wants to keep you forever.
I looked at Mira-1.
She was… tired.
Her eyes flickered toward the real bed — mine.
> "I've been here so long, I forgot how my own voice sounds," she said.
"They kept sending new versions. Hoping one of us would figure it out."
> "You remembered the fire.
You remembered her.
That means it's your turn."
My voice finally came out, cracked and hollow:
> "What happens to the one who stays?"
She looked away.
> "We forget."
> "The bed puts us back together into pieces.
We become part of the room.
We become her."
---
And suddenly I knew what she meant.
The entity in the closet. The whispering voice in the dark.
The soft weeping I kept hearing between dreams.
It wasn't a ghost.
It was us.
All the versions that stayed.
Crushed down. Folded in. Made into furniture for Room 616.
---
> "I don't want to forget," I whispered.
She nodded.
> "Then you have to burn it."
> "Burn the dream.
Burn the bed.
Burn me."
---
I stared at her.
She lay back, pulling the blanket up.
Waiting.
Ready.
Like someone lying down to finally, finally sleep.
I struck the match.
It flared to life — a single fragile flame.
And the room began to scream.
Not from fire.
From memory.
---
Every photo on the walls peeled.
The mirrors shattered.
The air turned electric — hot and vicious. The bed screamed back at me, its fabric contorting like muscle and skin.
The second bed caught fire. Mira-1's eyes locked onto mine.
She mouthed something:
> "Thank you."
And then she was gone.
---
Everything else burned with her.
The wallpaper peeled away into void.
The lights shattered inward.
And the floor collapsed beneath me—
---
I woke up.
On a hotel lobby couch.
Alone.
The bell on the front desk rang softly.
No one was there.
In my hand, a keycard.
Not plastic.
But brass.
ROOM 616.
---
My phone buzzed.
One new message.
> "We hope you enjoyed your stay.
You left something behind."
I looked down.
My reflection stared up from the phone screen.
She smiled.
I didn't.