The Room at the End

Lexile: 1080 | Grade: 9

Passage

The hotel was nearly empty when Nora checked in. The clerk didn’t smile, but handed her a brass key attached to a cracked leather tag marked *Room 213*. The room was at the end of a long hallway, past a series of doors with faded numbers and peeling paint.

She wasn’t supposed to be here. This trip wasn’t planned—more like stumbled into. A detour on her way to nowhere, she had told herself. But the moment she stepped into Room 213, a strange chill met her skin—not from cold, but recognition, like walking into a memory she didn’t own.

The room was plain: a bed, a desk, a mirror that tilted slightly to the left. There was nothing unusual, except for the smell. Not unpleasant—just *familiar*, like damp pages of an old book she couldn’t remember reading.

She didn’t sleep well. The floor creaked even when she lay still. Just after midnight, she awoke to a whisper—not a voice exactly, but the *feeling* of a voice. She sat up, heart racing, but the room was empty.

In the morning, she found something wedged under the desk: a postcard, yellowed and water-stained. It had no stamp, no address. Just a name written in blue ink: **N. Weaver**—her own name. On the back, in small, hurried script: *“You were here. You will be again.”*

She went to the front desk. A different clerk was on duty. Younger. Smiling. Nora held out the card. 'Do you know anything about this? It was in my room.'

He looked at it, then at her. 'You stayed in Room 213?' he asked.

'Yes,' she said slowly.

He hesitated. 'That room’s been closed since last spring. A pipe burst. It hasn’t been rented in months.'

Nora blinked. 'But… I was just there. I have the key.'

The clerk stepped back. 'We haven’t given out a key to that room in nearly a year.' He paused, then added more gently, 'Are you feeling okay, ma’am?'

She didn’t answer. She was already walking back down the hallway, the brass key warm in her hand, like something that had always belonged to her.