There’s a hallway in the old District Five hospital they never mention on the maps.

The east wing was condemned after the fires in ’92, but the fifth floor… it still breathes. The lights above flicker in a rhythm you feel more than see. The tiles sweat. The air smells like ozone and lost time.

No one’s allowed up there. No one except the man with the cart.

Twice a week, he brings flowers. Always the same: wilted violets in cracked glass bottles. He places them outside each door like offerings.

He never speaks. But once, I asked.

“Who are they for?”

He looked at me like I was the one who didn’t exist.
“The patients,” he said.
“But there’s no one left.”

A beat.
“There’s always someone left.”

And then he was gone, lost in the humming quiet of the floor that doesn’t forget.

Suggested Soundtrack:

“Veilwake” by Wartonno Sound – dark ambient layers with soft echo textures, perfect for reading.
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