James Sunderland stepped into the narrow corridor, every nerve on edge as the fluorescent lights overhead flickered weakly, barely holding back the shadows that seemed to slither along the walls. He took a steadying breath, only for his stomach to clench as that familiar, unsettling nausea clawed at his insides. Silent Hill always felt like it was breathing down his neck.

He gripped the rusted pipe in his hand, knuckles whitening, as though it were the only solid thing in a world constantly slipping through his fingers. What am I even doing here? The thought slithered into his mind, unbidden, like it had so many times before. The answer was always the same: Mary. Her name alone was enough to send a shiver through him, a name that carried a mixture of longing, guilt, and that sickening, festering pain that had gnawed at him since the day he lost her. But had he really lost her? Had he truly—

“James…” Her voice, at least he thought it was, echoed down the corridor, soft, almost like a whisper carried on the stale, fetid air. He froze, head whipping to the side, staring down the empty hallway.

How many times have I heard her like this? He wondered if he was going mad, if this place was finally breaking him, stretching him thin until he was little more than a frayed thread. He wouldn’t put it past this town to do it. It had a way of worming into your mind, prying open the hidden places, laying bare things that should have stayed buried. Maybe he deserved it.