Room 909

The rain had been falling since dusk, and by the time **Elias** reached the lobby of the **Hotel Mirabelle**, his coat was soaked through. The place was a monument to a time that had forgotten i’self red velvet curtains, brass chandeliers that flickered, and a faint smell of cigarette smoke clinging to the wallpaper.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. He had taken the wrong train, missed the right one, and ended up at a station where the night felt heavier than usual.

The receptionist was half-asleep behind the counter, her lipstick smudged, her smile mechanical.

“Single room?” she asked.

“Yeah. Whatever’s open.”

She slid him a key. *Room 909.*

He took the elevator up. The doors groaned, mirrors cracked, and the hum of the old motor filled the silence.

When he stepped out, the hallway was empty except for one open door at the far end. Room 909. The number hung crooked.

Inside, the light buzzed faintly. The room smelled of old perfume and rain.

And then he saw her.

A woman, sitting by the window, wearing a silver dress that caught the lightning flashes. She turned slowly.

“I thought you’d never come,” she said.

He froze. “I… think you have the wrong person.”

Her smile was faint, knowing. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re exactly who I was waiting for.”

Her name was **Lena**. Or at least that’s what she told him.

She poured two glasses of wine from a half-empty bottle. “You look like someone running from something,” she said.

He hesitated. “Aren’t we all?”

They clinked glasses. Outside, thunder rolled across the skyline like a tired promise.

Lena laughed softly. “Do you believe in accidents?”

“Not lately.”

“Good,” she said. “Because nothing in this city happens by accident.”

They talked. For hours. About nothing and everything the city, the rain, old loves, bad choices. She had a voice that felt like déjà vu.

When the clock struck two, she stood up and said, “Dance with me.”

“There’s no music.”

“There’s always music,” she said, closing her eyes. “You just have to listen.”

And he did. The hum of the lights. The rhythm of the rain. Her breathing close against his chest.

For a moment, the city outside disappeared.

Later, she sat on the edge of the bed, tracing the rim of her wine glass. “You remind me of someone,” she whispered.

“Who?”

“A man who stayed here once. In this very room. Said he’d come back for me.”

“Did he?”

She smiled sadly. “He tried. But he was too late.”

Elias frowned. “What happened to him?”

She looked toward the window. “He died. On a night like this.”

The silence stretched. The thunder faded.

He tried to laugh it off, but her words lingered. “That’s… dark.”

“Everything in this city is.”

He woke up before dawn, the rain still whispering against the glass. The bed beside him was empty.

On the table, there was a note.

> *Thank you for keeping your promise.*

He blinked. “What promise?” he murmured.

Her glass of wine was still half full. Her perfume still hung in the air.

He checked the hallway. Empty. The receptionist downstairs looked surprised when he returned the key.

“Checking out already?” she asked.

“There was a woman in the room Lena. You saw her, right?”

The woman frowned. “Sir, that room’s been closed for years.”

He laughed uneasily. “No, that’s impossible. She was there last night.”

The receptionist hesitated, then opened an old ledger from beneath the counter. “The last person to stay in 909 was in 1985. Couple. He never checked out.”

Elias stared at the page. The name written there made his blood run cold.

**Elias Mercer.**

His own handwriting.

He dropped the key. “That’s not funny.”

But the receptionist was pale now, staring past him.

He turned. Through the glass doors, outside in the rain, stood **Lena**, watching him, smiling faintly.

Lightning flashed. She raised a hand, mouthed something he couldn’t hear.

Then she was gone.

The key on the counter glowed faintly, the number 909 burned into the brass like it had just been made.

Elias stepped outside. The city was silent. The rain had stopped.

Somewhere far above, in a window of the old hotel, a light flickered once then went dark.

And if anyone passed the Hotel Mirabelle that night, they might’ve seen two silhouettes dancing behind the glass, as if the city itself refused to forget them.

Because in the city after dark, love doesn’t die.
It just learns how to haunt.