So, he is standing in the middle of that tiny room. Looking around, lurking the area in an idiotic way. Then he thought “oh, the clock on the wall may be out of battery, the hands are still” yes, it could be that, but now something strikes him, the clock indicates 03:23. “Funny, just like the room number” came to think Yamori. He, though, didn’t made a case out of that. His sight, then, crawled down the wall, photographs were pinned on the wall; faces of unknown people. Could have been the resident, could have been anyone on Earth and in the universe. Just in order to verify if he happened to recognize anyone he saw in the house, Yamori approached and stared at the pictures. “Polaroids definitely hit different; this should really come back as a standard” said the boy in his head. Some of the pictures were showing people partying, portraits, a couple holding hands, some landscapes, a river, a house. Timeless beauty of the 90’s, people living the moment, or maybe that is just the effect of the polaroids. As Yamori’s eyes keep on venturing the wall his attention gets caught by variety of items. A toy car, the kind you can build, customize, race against your friends in a circuit; one of the funniest toys from Japan. “Hey, I had one of those as a kid!” though Yamori with nostalgia. Then, he saw a few stuffed animals and plushies, some posters from bands or movies. “Sonatine, I never saw that movie, I guess who ever lived here really liked it” pursued Yamori in his head. At some point the man saw a pile of books and letters and, for some reasons, he started to dig through the works. Some Dostoevski, Mishima, Kawabata, Sartre, Marx, Primo Levi, Camus, Orwell, Lenin, plenty of essays and thesis. Yamori grabbed No Exit by Jean Paul Sartre and casted a careless glance at the book cover, “let’s see what’s that book about”. He opened it at the last page thinking that he would understand the whole book and read “Garcin: Hell is other people

                -Why you say that Garcin, why your name’s so funny, Garcin?” Asked Yamori to the book.

                As he browsed the paged, a letter fell on the book pile below. The boy grabbed it with a hand while holding No Exit with the other. The letter was signed, but the hand writing was barely readable.

                Dear *****       

Whis I was **********. Here, every day is a rainy day.

* **** like the rain, but not here. It feels like *****************************

*** seemed * *** off lately, I wish I was here, I would cheer *** **.

I don’t know how much ink I have left *** ***, if only the rain was ink.

I could ***** ** you endlessly.

                Answer ** anything, as long as you breath, I’ll be *****.

                                                                                              Shi**ka

                Without thinking anything particular about the content – more about the awful handwriting, Yamori put the letter back in the book, and put the book back on the pile. He stood back up when he saw, slightly under the pillow on the bed, another letter. Like an automaton, he took it, and started reading.

                Dear *******,

                * **** cannot forgive myself.

Writing to you is pointless, you’re already a wind, a wave, and I am still **, standing.

* ***** know if it makes me feel better or worse to write that pointless letter.

I will never forgive myself. You called me. We were ****less.

                Now I know, you just wanted me by your side.

I failed you; I can’t bear ******* anymore.

You were the one, I was the none.

You called me. ** were helpless.******** nothing I could do to save you, that I thought.

True.

But **** **** save me, was being with you,

When you sang your last note.

Now I am only a piano without strings.

                 *************************** the night the sun rises, we will be again together.

                If not:

Too bad.

                                                                                              *****

                Chills crawled from the bottom of Yamori’s spine. “I shouldn’t be reading this” he thought. I quickly put that letter under the pillow where he found it. As he stood back up, he soon realized the room was actually filled with letters and polaroids with annotations. And, as the room was slowly filling with darkness, he realized he might have spent too much time in here. He reached the curtains, looking to let a bit of outside light enter.

                In the share-house every room has a balcony with sliding glass doors. The ones from the room were covered with newspaper. Ranging from the Showa period, to Heisei, up to Reiwa. But what matters most is not the content of the newspapers, it’s rather what was painted on it.

                Here is not here.         

                Yamori spent about an hour in that room, and never noticed that message on the windows. He was shivering all of a sudden. As he started turning on his feet to reach the door, a necktie dropped from the ceiling. The apparel was tied in a knot, Yamori saw it clearly and whatever was that for, it shocked the boy who fell back on the pile of book.

                He realized how the room changed since he entered. The fresh smell vanished long ago, crushed under a cavernous fragrance of dust and metal. The wallpaper was torn, and the paint on the ceiling was falling. All the people on the photographs look distorted; their eyes hidden by deep shadows. The room was about to swallow Yamori.

                He gathered some strength and ran to the door that became rusty and cracked. In a desperate movement he slammed opened it and got on the other side.

                The hallway that was bright before he entered was now threatened by a flickering red light. Every half a second, Yamori was plunged into darkness for what felt like ages. He looked back at the room 323 door as if it would help him understand what was happening, when he realized the room number was upside down. The room door in front too. Actually, all room numbers were upside down throughout the whole hallway. But Yamori was not expecting what was standing at the end of the hallway, lurking in the darkness.

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