It was 11:38 PM when Adam checked into El Noor Hotel, a forgotten building tucked between two abandoned shops on a street that had long since given up on being alive. The air inside smelled of old curtains and forgotten stories.

He had no plans to stay long—just one night, maybe two. A quick escape from Cairo’s noise, a place to clear his head. The receptionist, an old man with a lazy eye and fingers yellowed by years of cigarettes, handed him a single brass key.

"Room number seven," the man muttered.
"No elevators. Third floor. Don’t lose the key."
Then after a pause, he added,
"Keep the curtains closed at night."

Adam gave a confused smile, but didn’t ask. Weird old men with weird rules were part of the charm of these places.

The stairwell creaked under his weight. Third floor. Door on the left. The brass number "7" was hanging sideways, like it had tried to escape but gave up halfway.

Inside, the room was dim, the walls stained with dampness, and the light flickered as he entered. It wasn’t much—but it would do.

He threw his bag on the bed, opened the window for air, and sat down to check his phone.
No signal.

Of course.

When he looked back at the window… the curtains had moved.

He was sure he hadn’t touched them. They were now half-drawn—as if someone had been peeking out.

He walked over slowly, his feet sinking into the old red carpet, and reached out to pull the curtains fully aside. Just fabric. No one there. Nothing but the dark alley below.

But as he turned away—he saw it.

A note. A folded paper resting on the nightstand that definitely hadn’t been there before.

He opened it with trembling fingers.

“Don’t open the window. He comes when the air moves.”

Adam stared at the note. The handwriting was neat, too neat, like it was printed—not written.

He looked at the window again.

And the curtains…
…were moving.

But this time, the window was closed.