It was a cold, misty evening when I checked into The Mist Vale Inn — a quiet, old hotel perched on the edge of a lonely hill in Shimla. The wooden staircase creaked under my steps, chandeliers hung like forgotten memories, and the walls carried faded portraits of strangers long gone.

At the reception, I signed the guest register.

"Rahul Verma. One night."

The receptionist didn’t smile. He just said,

“Room 304. Third floor.”

I took the key and walked toward the staircase. The silence in the building was unsettling — like the walls were holding their breath.

On the third floor, I found Room 301… then 302… then 303…

And after that — just a blank wall.

No Room 304.

I stood there confused.

I went back downstairs.

“There’s no Room 304. It just… doesn’t exist,” I told the receptionist.

He stared at me with hollow eyes.

“Sir, I just gave you the key for 304...”

I looked at the key again.

It clearly said 304 on the brass tag.

I walked back up, this time more slowly. I examined the wall near 303 — and there it was: a faint outline, barely visible.

I pushed the wall gently, and with a soft click…

A door opened.

The air was stale and damp. The room was dark — no lights, no windows. It smelled of mildew… blood… and something else I couldn’t describe.

The moment I stepped inside,

the door shut behind me.

I pulled out my phone —

No signal.

The room had only an old, rusted bed, a broken cupboard, and a yellowed newspaper nailed to the wall.

The headline read:

> “Local boy Rahul Verma murdered in Room 304 of Mist Vale Hotel — body never recovered.”

(Dated: 1997)

I dropped the newspaper.

That was my name.

And then…

A whisper from behind me:

"This time… you won't leave."

I spun around —

No one.

---

🩸 Twist Ending:

To this day, the reception register at Mist Vale still carries the name:

“Rahul Verma — Room 304”

And every year, on the same date, someone checks in looking for that room…

But they’re never seen again.

They say mirrors never lie.

But what if one steals your truth?

Anvi, a quiet 19-year-old girl, moves from Delhi to a forgotten hill town after the tragic loss of her parents. She now lives with her grandmother in an old ancestral home filled with silence, stories, and dust.

Everything feels different — the wind, the people, the cold air…

But the strangest of all is a dust-covered, antique mirror tucked away in the attic.

The first time Anvi looks into the mirror, she feels something shift — as if her reflection is watching her... but refusing to smile.

Soon, the mirror begins to show her visions — moments that feel like memories, but ones she doesn’t recall. Scenes of her childhood, her parents’ final days, secrets long buried in silence.

With every glance, the girl in the mirror changes —

a tilt of the head she didn’t make, eyes that shimmer with knowing,

a version of Anvi who seems more… complete.

More real.

As the mirror pulls her deeper, Anvi realizes this is more than a reflection.

It’s a doorway — one that remembers everything she has forgotten.

Everything others made her forget.

But the closer she gets to the truth, the more unstable her reality becomes.

Rooms rearrange.

People forget her name.

And the girl in the mirror?

She begins to move on her own.

Until one day, the mirror doesn’t show Anvi at all —

but a girl who smiles and walks away.

Anvi is no longer in the room.

---

🥀 Ending (Open, Emotional):

Only the mirror remains —

and a version of Anvi who finally found peace inside it.

But outside, no one remembers she ever existed.

> “Some truths heal you.

Others rewrite you.”

Ravi was a successful engineer — well-settled, respected, always busy.

But far away from home… and from his mother.

His mother would call almost every day, just to hear his voice.

But Ravi would often say, “Later, Ma. I’m in a meeting,” or

“I’m tired, I’ll call you back.”

Every time she called, she’d say just one thing:

> "I feel better after hearing your voice, beta. My day feels complete."

One evening, Ravi was exhausted. His phone rang.

It was his mother. He looked at the screen… and rejected the call.

"I’ll call later," he thought.

That “later” never came.

The next morning, an unknown number appeared on his phone.

> “Ravi ji, your mother passed away last night…

She had a sudden heart attack.”

The world around him collapsed.

He rushed to his village.

When he arrived, everything felt too quiet… too late.

Beside his mother’s bed was her old mobile phone.

Ravi picked it up. There was a voice recording saved — just hours before her death.

He pressed play.

It was her voice:

> "Beta… I don’t know why, but my heart feels heavy today.

If I can’t talk to you again…

Just know, I love you so much.

I live for the sound of your voice.

You are my world…"

Ravi froze.

Tears streamed down his face.

He played the message again. And again.

Each time, it broke him a little more.

His mother was gone.

But her voice remained.

Forever.

Her last voice… the only thing he could never reply to.

I sat with the old, yellowed envelope in my hand — untouched for years.

My fingers trembled, not because of the cold, but because of the memory it held.

I had written that letter to my father the night I left home — a young boy, angry, misunderstood, and broken. I never posted it.

Now, standing at his grave, I read it aloud.

"I hated you for not understanding me. But I never thanked you for the silent sacrifices. I saw your tired eyes every night. I heard your voice choke every time you told me to be strong."

Tears blurred the ink.

"I wanted to become better — not to prove you wrong, but to prove you right."

The wind whispered through the trees as if he was listening.

And for the first time in years, my heart felt a little less heavy.

Some letters don’t need to be sent. They just need to be read — even if only by the soul they were meant for.