“The Forgotten Room”

The Forgotten Room

A hotel room that erases memories

By [Ali Rehman]

I never planned to stay in Room 217. In fact, I never wanted to be anywhere near it. But sometimes, when the city swallows you whole and you find yourself stranded without options, you take whatever shelter you can get—even if it’s a room with a reputation.

The hotel receptionist gave me a hesitant look when I asked for a room. “217 is available,” she said softly, almost as if warning me. “But... some say it’s best to avoid it.”

I forced a laugh. “Sounds like a story for restless travelers,” I replied. “I’ll take it.”

She hesitated, then handed me the old brass key with the peeling tag. “Just be careful,” she whispered.

I wasn’t the superstitious type, but her tone unsettled me as I walked down the dimly lit hallway toward Room 217. The walls were stained, and the carpet was threadbare in places. The door was scratched and weathered, the number barely visible.

I inserted the key and stepped inside.

The room was strangely quiet. The heavy drapes blocked out the city’s neon buzz, plunging the space into an eerie twilight. A single lamp cast a faint glow on the cracked wallpaper, revealing peeling patches like faded scars. The bed was unmade, the sheets twisted in a way that suggested recent use.

I shrugged off the feeling of unease and collapsed onto the bed, exhaustion sinking into my bones.

That night, sleep came reluctantly. The darkness seemed to thicken around me, pressing in like a living thing. I dreamt of fragmented memories — faces I recognized but couldn’t place, places I once knew but had forgotten, words half-remembered slipping through my mind like water through fingers.

When I woke, the morning light was dull and muted, as if filtered through heavy fog. I reached for my phone on the bedside table, but it wasn’t there. Nor was my bag or the clothes I wore yesterday.

I sat up in panic. What was I doing in this room? How had I gotten here?

The door creaked open. The receptionist stepped inside, holding my belongings. Her face was kind but worried.

“You’ve been here two days,” she said softly. “You didn’t check out yesterday morning.”

I frowned. “Two days? But... I thought I just got here last night.”

Her eyes flickered with something I couldn’t read. “Room 217 has a history,” she said. “It erases pieces of your past. People who stay here forget who they are — or at least parts of themselves.”

I laughed nervously. “That sounds impossible.”

She smiled sadly. “Try asking yourself who you are.”

I spent the day searching for answers. I flipped through my phone’s contacts — all blank. My wallet had no ID, no credit cards, nothing that could identify me. I was a ghost without a past.

Panic grew like wildfire. Who was I? What had I forgotten?

I looked around the room again, desperate for clues. A photograph sat on the nightstand — a blurry image of a smiling woman standing by a lake. I didn’t recognize her. On the desk was a notebook filled with scribbles, half-written sentences, memories I couldn’t decipher.

“The more I stay, the less I remember.”

“Who am I without my memories?”

“Please don’t forget me.”

The handwriting was shaky but strangely familiar.

Days passed in a strange, blurred rhythm. Each morning, the room felt colder and emptier, as if swallowing more of me. My reflection in the cracked mirror was a stranger’s face, eyes clouded with confusion.

I tried writing down what I knew, but the words slipped away before I could grasp them. Names, places, feelings — all vanished like smoke.

The city outside continued on, oblivious to the silent erasure happening behind those faded walls.

One evening, as I sat by the window, I noticed a shadow moving just beyond the glass. A figure waving, beckoning me. I opened the door to the balcony, but the rooftop was empty.

The shadow was gone — or maybe it was never there.

I whispered into the night, “Who are you?”

The wind carried a soft reply, barely audible: “Remember.”

Desperation drove me to dig through the room’s hidden corners. Behind the loose wallpaper, I found a small, dusty box. Inside were letters tied with a faded ribbon, photographs, and a journal.

The journal was filled with entries from someone named “M.”

“I came here to forget. But the room takes more than memories — it steals souls.”

“If you find this, don’t stay too long. Fight to hold on.”

My heart pounded. Was “M” me? Was I just another forgotten victim of this cursed room?

Determined, I forced myself to write everything I could recall — a name, a face, a dream — anything to anchor myself. I scribbled on the walls, the furniture, anything that would not let me disappear.

And slowly, pieces came back.

I remembered laughter with someone I loved, the smell of rain on pavement, the warmth of sunlight on my skin.

I remembered me.

On the third day, I stood at the door, key in hand, ready to leave. The receptionist was waiting, eyes filled with relief.

“Will you come back?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No one does. But they don’t always leave.”

I stepped out into the bustling city, blinking at the sharp sunlight and the noise of life. The room behind me closed softly, its secrets waiting for the next traveler who needed to forget.

I never told anyone about Room 217. I don’t think I could explain it. But I carry its lesson in my heart — that memories make us who we are, and losing them is like losing yourself piece by piece.

Sometimes, when I see a faded hotel down a forgotten street, I wonder about the other forgotten rooms — and the souls trapped inside them.

But I also know this: some rooms are meant to be left behind.