Darkness swallowed me.
There was no sense of time. No sense of place.
Only a cold void—as if I were drifting in a sea of black nothingness.
The last thing that flickered in my memory was that dark mouth in the painting of my distorted reflection, widening to devour me… and the terrified screams of my teammates fading into the distance.
Then, slowly—painfully—my senses began to return.
The first thing I felt was cold.
Something solid beneath my body.
Then a strange smell—a mix of old dust, rotting wood, and a faint trace of wilted flowers.
"…Mm."
I opened my eyes with difficulty, as if my eyelids had been glued shut.
The light was dim and gray, seeping through a small window covered with torn, yellowed lace curtains.
I found myself lying on a cracked wooden floor.
What…?
I sat up slowly, a dull headache throbbing at the back of my skull. I looked around in confusion and caution, my mind struggling to piece things together.
I wasn't in the corridor of empty paintings.
And I wasn't in the unstable elevator.
I was in… a bedroom.
A small bedroom—one that seemed to belong to another era, something I had only ever seen in old books or films.
The walls were covered in faded floral wallpaper, peeling in places to reveal older layers beneath… or perhaps damp, cold stone.
In one corner stood a small bed with carved wooden posts, draped in delicately embroidered white sheets that looked untouched for decades.
A thin layer of dust danced in the faint light filtering through the window.
Where the hell am I? I thought, my heart beginning to pound like a trapped bird.
Am I… inside that cursed painting now?
Is this… its world?
I scanned the room desperately, searching for any exit—any door, anything that might suggest I wasn't completely trapped.
There was no door.
Only four faded walls.
And the small window… opening onto nothing.
Just endless gray fog.
As if the room floated in an infinite void.
Wonderful.
From a haunted hotel… to a haunted bedroom inside a haunted painting inside a haunted hotel.
My life just keeps getting better. And more logical.
I stood on unsteady legs, feeling a chill seep into my bones despite the air not being particularly cold.
In another corner stood a small wooden desk.
On it were several old, dusty books with cracked leather covers—untouched for what looked like centuries.
Beside them sat a porcelain doll.
Curly blonde hair.
Empty blue glass eyes.
Staring into nothing with an expression both innocent and deeply unsettling.
And on the wall above the desk…
A painting.
A small oil painting in a worn wooden frame, coated in a thin layer of dust.
It depicted…
A little girl.
Curly dark hair.
Closed eyes.
Her small hand pointing upward.
The same girl.
The same painting I had seen in the corridor.
The one that cried blood.
The one that pointed at me.
Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it.
A cold shiver ran down my spine, as if icy fingers had brushed against it.
So it was true.
I was trapped inside this cursed painting.
But why?
What was I supposed to do here?
Solve another ridiculous puzzle?
Fight another nightmare?
Or stay here forever… and become just another memory in this place?
Desperate to understand—desperate to find anything to cling to—I activated [Narrative Architect Blueprint] again, focusing hard despite the pounding in my head.
The familiar blue screen appeared.
Information formed slowly, as if even the system struggled to interpret this twisted reality.
[Active Narrative Analysis: Lobby Elevator of Oblivion (Rank E) – Current Floor: Gallery of Slumbering Souls – Active Sub-Narrative: Memory Room (The Girl with Closed Eyes)]
Current Status:
You are trapped inside an "embodied memory" linked to the painting you interacted with.
This space is a symbolic, distorted, fragmented representation of a part of the girl's "spirit," "story," or "inner world."
Objective (uncertain):
Understand the pain, secret, or unfulfilled desire of this memory—and resolve, soothe, or complete it.
Doing so may lead to "opening the eye" of the spirit in the original painting.
Mechanics of this painted world:
This space responds to your actions, observations, intentions, and possibly your emotions.
Objects may change, appear, or disappear depending on your understanding and interaction.
Potential Threats (Severe Warning):
Manifested Nightmares:
Disturbing the memory or intensifying its pain may cause its emotions (fear, sorrow, anger, despair… even hunger) to manifest as dangerous phenomena or entities.
Loss:
Failure to understand the memory—or prolonged despair—may cause your own memory to deteriorate.
You may become a permanent part of this memory. Forgotten. Transformed into another ghost… or another painting.
Hint (repeated):
"What you do not see may be more important than what you do."
Great. Very helpful, I thought bitterly.
So I was stuck inside a sad little girl's memory… and now I had to play therapist, detective, or exorcist.
Or become furniture.
Or another painting crying blood in that cursed corridor.
And of course—what I don't see is still the magical answer to everything.
Amazing.
Couldn't it just give me a cheat code for once?
I looked around the room again—this time more carefully.
Searching.
For anything hidden.
Anything unseen.
…
The doll.
The empty paintings.
Everything felt disturbingly normal—like time had been frozen.
Then—
Something caught my attention.
"...What's that?"
Under the small bed—with its unnaturally pristine white sheets—there was a box.
An old wooden box.
Like a child's treasure chest.
Or a memory box.
Covered in thick dust.
Locked with a simple, rusted brass lock.
A stubborn one.
A box…
A flicker of curiosity stirred—mixed with that familiar sense of danger.
Important things in places like this were always hidden in old locked boxes.
I approached carefully.
Knelt.
Tried to open it.
It didn't budge.
Of course.
Nothing is ever that easy.
There had to be a key somewhere.
As I looked around—
Searching…
Thinking…
I heard it.
Crying.
Soft.
Muffled.
Childlike.
"...hng… ngh… sob…"
I froze.
Slowly turned—
And when I saw it…
I froze completely.
A little girl.
Sitting on the edge of the bed.
Crying quietly.
She didn't look like a ghost.
She looked… real.
Disturbingly real.
Wearing an old white dress.
Holding a torn teddy bear.
Her large brown eyes filled with endless tears.
A child… crying…
Something twisted in my chest.
Something beyond fear.
"...H-hello?" I said carefully, trying not to scare her.
My voice came out hoarse.
She lifted her head slowly, wiping her tears with her sleeve.
Then she looked at me.
Deep sadness in her eyes.
And something… empty.
"Why… do you look so sad too, mister?" she whispered softly.
"…Huh?"
That caught me off guard.
"I don't know," I said honestly.
"Maybe because this place… isn't very happy."
I took a cautious step closer.
"I'm Adam. And you… do you have a name?"
She looked at her teddy bear.
Then back at me.
"…Lilia," she said faintly.
Shy.
"That's a beautiful name," I said, offering a small, gentle smile.
Act normal.
Even if nothing about this is normal.
"Why are you crying, Lilia? Is something wrong?"
She nodded slowly.
More tears gathered.
"I'm… alone… and it's always cold here."
Alone… cold…
The words struck something deep inside me.
Whatever she was… her feelings weren't fake.
I sat down on the cold floor a short distance away, careful not to frighten her.
"I get lonely too sometimes," I said quietly.
"This place… isn't very kind."
She looked at me curiously.
Her tears paused for a moment.
"Are you… scared too?"
Scared? I'm terrified out of my mind.
"…A little," I said instead.
"But when someone else is with you… it's less scary, right?"
She nodded slowly.
Thinking.
"Why am I here, Lilia?" I asked gently, glancing at the locked box beneath the bed—the one she hadn't acknowledged at all.
"Why did that painting swallow me?"
She shrugged her small shoulders.
"I don't know… you just… looked different."
Different?
She closed her eyes briefly.
Then said quietly,
"When I saw you in the dark corridor… there wasn't just fear in your eyes… like the others."
She tilted her head.
"As if trying to remember something."
"There was… something else. Something like me."
Like her…?
Then, with painful innocence, she added:
"You have the same lonely look I see in the mirror… every day… when I'm here… waiting for something that never comes."
…
Then she asked—unexpectedly:
"You need a friend… don't you? Just like me?"
The words hit me like shards of ice.
What is this kid talking about…?
I looked at her again.
Her simple white dress.
Her torn teddy bear.
Her trembling tears.
She didn't feel like a puzzle anymore.
Or a threat.
Just…
A lonely child.
Trapped in a nightmare she couldn't wake up from.
And for reasons I didn't fully understand—
I lowered my guard.
Slowly raised my hand toward her.
Not to touch.
But as an offer.
An invitation.
"…Maybe we can be friends, Lilia," I said softly.
Warmer than I expected.
"Just… until we find a way out of this place together."
She looked at my hand.
Then at my face.
In her eyes—
Hesitation.
Fear.
And a tiny, fragile spark…
Of hope.
Like seeing a shooting star for the very first time.