The Last Letter from Room 213

The rain hadn’t stopped for three days.
Outside, the city of Ashford looked like a watercolor painting that someone had left out in the storm. The streets were half-drowned, reflections of trembling streetlights flickering in puddles like dying stars.

Lena drove through the mist until her car coughed its last breath near a deserted lane. The only building still awake in that sleeping city was the Maplewood Hotel — an old structure that looked both lost and waiting, like something out of a forgotten photograph.

She stepped inside, dripping rainwater onto the cracked marble floor.

Behind the counter sat an old man in a brown vest, his face half-hidden under the dim yellow bulb. He didn’t smile. He didn’t ask questions. His voice was almost a whisper, like dust moving through air.
“Room 213,” he said, and handed her a brass key so cold it almost stung her palm.

Lena hesitated. “Is anyone else staying here?”

The man looked up briefly. His eyes were pale, almost silver.
“No one stays here long.”

She thought he was joking. But his tone didn’t waver.

As she climbed the staircase, the wooden steps moaned beneath her boots. The hallway stretched long and narrow, lined with faded portraits—men and women in old clothes, frozen mid-smile. Their eyes seemed to follow her. The wallpaper peeled like tired skin. Somewhere in the distance, a piano note echoed… just one.

Room 213 was at the very end.
The door opened with a sigh, as though it had been holding its breath for decades. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of lavender and rain. A single candle flickered beside the bed, though she hadn’t lit it.

On the wooden desk lay a sealed envelope, yellowed and fragile, her name written on it in elegant black ink.
Lena.

Her heart stumbled.
She hadn’t told anyone she was coming here.

She tore it open. The paper crackled like something ancient.

> “If you’re reading this, then the storm has brought you back. Don’t be afraid. Some places remember us, even when we forget them.”



That was all. No name. No signature. No date.

She stared at it for a long time, pulse quickening. Maybe it was a prank. Maybe the staff left notes like this to entertain lonely travelers. But deep down, a shadow stirred — something older, something familiar.

As she unpacked, her eyes kept drifting toward the mirror above the desk. For a second, she thought she saw someone behind her — a man, tall and still, with eyes full of sorrow. But when she turned, there was nothing. Only her reflection, pale and uncertain.

Sleep came slowly. The thunder outside rolled like ocean waves, pulling her into a dream.

In the dream, the hotel was alive again.
Golden chandeliers. Music spilling through the halls. People laughing, dancing. And there she was — Lena — in a silver gown, her hands trembling as she held those of a man whose face stayed hidden in shadow.

“Promise you won’t leave when the rain comes,” he said.
“I won’t,” she whispered.
But lightning flashed — and he vanished.

She woke gasping. The candle had melted into a pool of wax. The envelope on the desk was gone.
In its place lay a new note.

> “You always leave before the rain stops.”



Her chest tightened. She rushed downstairs. But the reception was empty — no clerk, no lamp, no ledger. Even the furniture was covered in sheets, heavy with dust. The clock behind the counter had stopped at 12:03.

She ran outside.
The rain had ended. The first light of dawn washed the street in gray-blue silence. She turned back toward the building—
and froze.

The Maplewood Hotel stood there, but its windows were boarded. Its sign half-broken, rusted letters hanging loose:
“Closed since 1972.”

She stepped closer. The door wouldn’t open. Through the cracks, she saw nothing but shadows and broken glass.
When she looked down, the letter she held had turned blank. The ink bled away into nothingness, leaving only the faint scent of lavender.

Some say the hotel still appears on stormy nights, just as the rain begins to fall.
And if you listen closely, you can hear a piano playing somewhere deep inside, one lonely note at a time — waiting for the storm to bring her back again.