The Wandering Hall

There is a hotel that is never in the same place twice. It appears only when someone is truly lost — not merely off the road, but at the end of hope. Its name, if it ever had one, has been forgotten. The guests simply call it the Hall. The rules are given at check-in, printed on a card that smells like dust and rain: Do not open any door except your own. Do not look into the corridors after midnight. If you hear footsteps that match your own, do not follow them. A young woman named Lin checks in to search for her younger sister, who vanished three years ago after a storm. The clerk does not ask for payment. He only slides a key across the desk and says, "Your room has been waiting." At first, the Hall seems ordinary. But each time Lin leaves her room, the corridor is longer than before. The doors multiply. Behind some, she hears whispers. Behind others, she hears herself — walking, breathing, knocking — from the inside. And on the seventh floor, where the hallway finally ends, there is a door with her own name on it.