The hallway was quiet in that strange, held-breath way old houses get at night. The light overhead flickered softly, casting a warm, tired glow over the wooden railing and the beige walls. Three doors lined the corridor, identical at a glance, but one of them always felt heavier… older. A faint draft slipped out from underneath it, carrying the faint scent of dust and something like old lace. The floorboards near that door creaked even when no one stepped on them, and somewhere inside the room came a small, delicate sound—porcelain tapping once against wood before everything fell still again. The house waited, calm on the surface, but tense in the quiet.