Chapter 10: The Room That Shouldn’t Exist

Chapter 10: The Room That Shouldn't Exist

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Rick's eyes snapped open.

The scent of dust and something rotten clung to the air. The room was dim, lit only by the pale glow of an overcast sky seeping through the window.

He sat up slowly, his head pounding. His fingers pressed against a hard wooden floor—not his dorm's cheap carpet.

Something was wrong.

His heart skipped a beat as he scanned his surroundings. This wasn't his room.

The walls were a dull, faded beige. An old desk stood against the far wall, covered in books and scattered notes. A neatly made bed sat in the corner, its pillows slightly indented, as if someone had just been lying there.

A chill slid down his spine as his eyes landed on the desk.

A small nameplate sat on the wooden surface, coated in dust.

"Rose Nakamura."

---

Rick swallowed hard. This was Rose's old dorm.

But… she was gone.

His pulse pounded as he took in the details around him.

A calendar on the wall—the date frozen on the day of the train crash.

A coffee cup on the desk, half-full, its surface coated in mold, as if waiting for someone who never returned.

Photos pinned to the wall, but the faces were… blurred. As if time had eroded them.

Something felt off about the air itself, as if the room wasn't fully real. He could hear his own breathing, but there was no ambient noise—no wind, no distant hum of the university, just silence.

Rick hesitated before stepping forward.

His fingers trembled as he reached for a notebook lying open on the desk. The handwriting was rushed, desperate—Rose's handwriting.

The last few entries made his stomach twist:

"I keep seeing him in my dreams."

"The train keeps coming back. Why does it keep coming back?"

"Miki… I need to tell her—" (The rest was scratched out.)

A single sticky note was stuck to the page.

"If you see this, it's not over."

Rick's breath came shallow. His fingers curled around the edge of the notebook—

And then he heard it.

A soft, creaking sound behind him.

As if someone had just stepped onto the wooden floor.

---

Rick went completely still.

The sound came again. A soft, deliberate shift of weight.

His body screamed at him to turn around—but fear kept him rooted in place.

The chair by the desk rocked slightly, as if someone had just gotten up from it.

His fingers clenched around the notebook. The air had turned freezing.

A faint whisper drifted through the silence.

"…You shouldn't be here."

Rick's breath hitched.

He turned.

And saw her.

---

Rose sat on the bed, her back turned to him. She hadn't been there a second ago.

Her long, dark hair cascaded down her back, perfectly neat. Her body was still, almost unnaturally so, except for the slight movement of her fingers, as if she were brushing at an invisible thread on her lap.

Rick opened his mouth, his voice barely a whisper.

"...Rose?"

She didn't respond.

She was breathing, but there was something off about it. Too shallow. Too rhythmic.

Then—she moved.

She lifted a hand to brush her hair.

A simple, human motion. But something about it was wrong.

Too slow. Too precise. Like watching a puppet being guided by invisible strings.

Then, she spoke.

"…Miki, I need to tell you something."

Rick's blood ran cold.

Her voice was hollow, distant—like an old recording playing on a loop.

She wasn't really here.

She was a fragment. A memory.

Rick took a slow step forward. The floor groaned beneath his weight, but Rose didn't react.

She simply continued her cycle.

Brushing her hair. Pausing. Speaking the same words again.

"…Miki, I need to tell you something."

Rick's heartbeat pounded in his skull.

This was wrong.

"Rose," he tried again, his voice shaking. "Can you hear me?"

She didn't answer.

She only turned her head slightly to the side, as if listening to something he couldn't hear.

Her lips parted.

"…The train keeps coming back."

Rick felt a violent shiver run down his spine.

Then—her voice shifted.

Glitching. Distorting. Like a broken radio signal.

"…It's happening again."

Her breathing hitched.

For the first time, her body jerked violently—as if something was pulling her back into place.

Rick took another step forward. His voice barely held together.

"Rose, what is happening?"

Her head snapped toward him.

For the first time—her empty, hollow eyes locked onto his.

His stomach plummeted.

Because for that one split second—he was sure.

She actually saw him.

Then—

She whispered something so quiet that it barely brushed the air.

And she vanished.

---

The moment she disappeared, the entire room flickered—like a dying lightbulb about to go out.

Rick stumbled backward, his chest heaving.

His breath fogged in the air—the room was still freezing.

And then—a sound.

Something scratched against the floor behind him.

His veins turned to ice.

Rick turned slowly.

The closet door—which had been closed moments ago—was now slightly ajar.

A sliver of darkness peeked from within.

Then—

Something inside the closet moved.