“Ang Nakalimutang Silid” (The Forgotten Room)

                                       Photo from Pexels by Pato Terentev   

They said the building had no third floor.
Two levels only—concrete, cold, and predictable.
But sometimes, at exactly 3:17 a.m., the elevator paused.
Not on the second. Not on the first.
Somewhere in between.

If you didn’t press a button—if you simply waited—it opened.

Emilia wasn’t supposed to be there.
She had fallen asleep in the stairwell, waiting for someone who never came.
Her phone was dead. Her thoughts, louder than the hum of the lights.
And then a gentle tone sounded from the elevator.

She stepped in.
No buttons lit.
No music played.

The doors closed.                                                                                                                                                                

And when they opened again, she saw a hallway that shouldn’t exist.

The air was thick, like breath held too long.
The walls pulsed faintly, as if remembering something.
There were no windows.
Only one door at the end—wooden, deformed, and slightly ajar.

She walked toward it.
Each step felt like a decision she hadn’t made yet.

Inside: a room with no furniture.
No light source.
Just a figure.

Blurry.
Still.
Long hair. Pale sleeves. No face.

It didn’t move.
But Emilia felt it watching.

She tried to speak, but her voice stayed in her throat.
And then—without sound—the figure tilted its head.

“Kung sino mang makalimot, siya ang mananatili.”
(Whoever forgets… stays.)

The lights flickered.
The hallway behind her stretched longer than before.
She turned to run—but the door was gone.

Only the room.
Only the figure.

And now, they say the elevator still pauses at 3:17.
It opens for someone else.
But no one ever sees Emilia again.

Only a blurred silhouette.
Standing.
Waiting.

© 2025 Amee  Tala at Dilim Writes