Room 301 | Noir Jazz Playlist скачать в хорошем качестве

Room 301 | Noir Jazz Playlist

It started with a note slipped under my door. No name. No address. Just five words, handwritten in careful block letters: “She never left Room 301.” I lived on the third floor. Apartment 309. There was no Room 301. Not anymore. The building was old—Art Deco bones, bad plumbing, walls that carried whispers too well. I asked the landlord about 301. He hesitated. Then: “Used to be the caretaker’s unit. Sealed off years ago.” “Why?” He shrugged. “Flood. Fire. Mold. Depends who you ask.” I asked around. An old woman in 312 just laughed. “Still trying to get out, is she?” “Who?” But she just closed the door. That night, I walked the hallway slowly, shoes off. The numbers on the doors were even: 302, 304, 306… Where should 301 be? There was a blank section of wall between the stairs and 303. No seams. No handle. But something was there. The air near it felt thicker. Like the wall had lungs. The next night, the note came again. Same words. Same careful hand. “She never left Room 301.” But this time, a key was taped to the back. Antique. Heavy. Cold. It didn’t fit anything on my floor. So I tested the wall. Knuckles tapped. Hollow. I pressed my hand flat against it—then leaned in. And heard it. Breathing. The super denied everything. “No key. No door. No 301.” He got nervous fast. Started talking about lease violations. Security. Insurance. I left. That night, the hallway lights flickered as I passed 303. The wall was different now. A door. No number. No peephole. Just wood, warped and worn, like it had waited too long. I tried the key. It turned. Room 301 smelled like time. Dust, old wood, and something faintly floral—like wilted funeral flowers. No lights. But moonlight leaked through warped blinds. The room was… preserved. Like someone had stepped out decades ago and never came back. Suitcase by the bed. A cup of tea—dry, rim stained. Curtains yellow with age. And in the center of the room: a chair, facing the window. Empty. I turned to leave. The door was gone. Not shut. Gone. Only wall behind me. I didn’t panic. Not yet. Instead, I looked around again. Everything was coated in stillness. Not dust—stillness. Then I saw the mirror. It was the only thing in the room that looked… new. No dust. No cracks. I looked into it. And saw her. Not a reflection. Not me. A woman, seated in the chair. Back straight. Hands folded. Watching the window. But when I turned, the chair was still empty. The mirror fogged. A word appeared in the glass, written from the inside: STAY. I backed away. Turned a full circle. No door. No seam. No exit. Then came the sound. Footsteps. Slow. Soft. Measured. From nowhere, and yet—getting closer. I turned back to the mirror. The woman stood now. Still watching the window. But her head… was turning. Toward me. I pressed both hands to the wall where the door had been. Nothing. Then I remembered the key. It was gone from my pocket. In the mirror, she smiled. I don’t remember sleeping. But I woke on my own floor. Apartment 309. The key was on my nightstand. The note was gone. I ran to the hallway. Where the door to 301 had been— just wall again. Weeks passed. I stopped asking questions. But some nights, I hear footsteps in the hall. And once, just once, I heard a voice from behind the wall: “Don’t forget. She never left.” Last night, a note appeared under my door again. Five words. Same handwriting. “Room 301 is open again.” And this time, no key. Just a small, round mirror. Do you see her too? - Original stories and music. Crafted with creative intelligence. ©quiet, now. All rights reserved.