Ash and soot cake the broken floor tiles. The old ride-on carts are rusted. The neon signs are shattered.

You haven’t moved in days. Maybe weeks.

But the voices won’t let you rest.

“You thought this would hide you.” “You used to laugh.” “We remember how you screamed.”

Their whispers crawl up the walls.

(You’re alone. Except you’re not. You never are.)