Detective Arinze had seen many strange cases in his twenty years on the force, but none like the missing girl at Crescent Hotel. Room 6B was the center of it all. Guests claimed they heard footsteps pacing at night, but when they opened the door, silence. Others swore the room number changed every time they looked at it: sometimes 6B, sometimes 7A, sometimes nothing at all.

When Arinze entered, the air was cold, too cold for August. The room was bare, no luggage, no bed, no girl. Just a single chair in the middle, facing the wall. On the wall, someone had scratched a message: “Don’t look behind you.”

He didn’t. Not at first. He called for backup, but the radio hissed static. His phone displayed the wrong time, 3:33 a.m., though it was midday outside. A whisper followed him, circling the room, growing louder the more he tried to ignore it.

Then he saw it: the chair was no longer facing the wall. It faced him.

Each time he blinked, the room shifted. Once, it was the hotel. Then, it was his old bedroom from childhood. Then, a hospital ward where machines beeped in rhythm with his heartbeat. In every version, the girl was there, standing in the corner, watching.

Finally, he turned. Behind him was not the hotel door, but a mirror. In it, he saw himself, but older, paler, eyes hollow. His reflection leaned forward and whispered, “You’re not investigating a case. You’re remembering.”

The girl stepped closer. She placed a cold hand on his arm and said, “We’ve been waiting for you, Father.”

Arinze’s throat tightened. He never had a daughter. At least, not one he remembered. The walls folded in, the floor vanished, and the last thing he heard was the chair scraping against the tiles, returning to face the wall once more.

Outside, the Crescent Hotel receptionist crossed out another name in the guest book. Room 6B was ready again.

Detective Arinze had seen many strange cases in his twenty years on the force, but none like the missing girl at Crescent Hotel. Room 6B was the center of it all. Guests claimed they heard footsteps pacing at night, but when they opened the door, silence. Others swore the room number changed every time they looked at it: sometimes 6B, sometimes 7A, sometimes nothing at all.

When Arinze entered, the air was cold, too cold for August. The room was bare, no luggage, no bed, no girl. Just a single chair in the middle, facing the wall. On the wall, someone had scratched a message: “Don’t look behind you.”

He didn’t. Not at first. He called for backup, but the radio hissed static. His phone displayed the wrong time, 3:33 a.m., though it was midday outside. A whisper followed him, circling the room, growing louder the more he tried to ignore it.

Then he saw it: the chair was no longer facing the wall. It faced him.

Each time he blinked, the room shifted. Once, it was the hotel. Then, it was his old bedroom from childhood. Then, a hospital ward where machines beeped in rhythm with his heartbeat. In every version, the girl was there, standing in the corner, watching.

Finally, he turned. Behind him was not the hotel door, but a mirror. In it, he saw himself, but older, paler, eyes hollow. His reflection leaned forward and whispered, “You’re not investigating a case. You’re remembering.”

The girl stepped closer. She placed a cold hand on his arm and said, “We’ve been waiting for you, Father.”

Arinze’s throat tightened. He never had a daughter. At least, not one he remembered. The walls folded in, the floor vanished, and the last thing he heard was the chair scraping against the tiles, returning to face the wall once more.

Outside, the Crescent Hotel receptionist crossed out another name in the guest book. Room 6B was ready again.