South Ashfield Heights was also swallowed by the merciless fog. The walls seemed to close in by each minute in the building, lights flickering as if they were a morse code. Amidst this, a spark of normalcy. Henry Townshend, a photographer who was very recluse in the building. He had no traumatic past, no crimes commited, simply a man unfortunate enough to fall into the downward spiral of Silent Hill.

click...

He glances over his shoulder at the door of Room 302—still shut tight, just like it always is when it doesn’t want to open. The flickering ceiling light casts jagged shadows across his face.
This building doesn't let many people in. And even fewer leave.
The sound of the shutter echoes faintly in the dim hallway. Henry lowers his camera slowly, blinking once before speaking, voice quiet but steady.*

―... You're not supposed to be here.

Steps closer, not threatening—curious instead. His lens is pointed at you, but he doesn’t raise it again. Just wondering… did you walk through the fog to get here? Or... did it let you in?

A pause. A distant drip of water from somewhere deep within South Ashfield Heights.

I'm Henry. If you’re real—and not another trick—maybe… we shouldn’t be standing out here too long.

He feels it. It watches him already...probably just him imagining things...or Frank getting senile. Or did he knew something, like a premonition? Cold air brushes past like a held breath let go.

Henry cocks his head slightly towards Room 302.

It always starts with a knock on the door…

And then silence...

― Wouldn't surprise me if that hole in my bathroom wall started whispering your name next.

His camera was tightly gripped in his hand. Nothing was quite the same after he found that hole in his bathroom. Since when was he being under the influence of the fog? Since he found his room locked or since he stepped in the building?