Morning brought no sun.
Just a pale sky and the groan of old pipes.
Elira wandered the hallway, the air thick with silence. The children barely acknowledged her presence. Their eyes were dull, shoulders hunched like they carried invisible weight. When she tried to speak, they flinched.
Then she saw it.
At the end of the corridor, past the last room on the left, stood a heavy door. Painted a deep, dark red. Different from the others. No nameplate. No window. Just a large black keyhole, rusted around the edges.
And a faint stain on the floor. Brown. Faded. But unmistakably blood.
She took a step closer.
"Don't," a voice whispered.
Elira turned.
A boy, maybe eight, stood in the corner, his eyes wide with fear. He shook his head slowly. "Don't go near the Red Room… or she'll notice you."
"Who's 'she'?" Elira asked.
But he ran.
At lunch, the atmosphere was colder. The food—watery soup and hard bread—tasted of dust. Sister Helena watched them all from the front of the dining hall, her hands clasped, her eyes never blinking.
When Elira glanced back toward the hallway, she swore she saw the Red Room door open—just a crack.
That night, she couldn't help herself.
She crept from her bed, barefoot on the cold floor, drawn like a moth to the red-painted wood. The hallway was deathly still. The moon cast a sliver of light through the stained windows.
Elira stopped in front of the door.
A low hum leaked from the keyhole. Like breathing… but not human.
She reached out.
The doorknob was ice-cold.
Suddenly, a shadow moved behind her. She turned—no one.
But when she faced the Red Room again, something had changed.
The keyhole blinked.
And something on the other side began to smile.