Last night, I dreamed of a door on a wall that never had one. It was in my childhood bedroom. Same peeling wallpaper, same moth-bitten curtain, the same floorboard that creaked even under a feather’s weight. But the door—it hadn’t been there before.

It looked old. Not antique—older than that. Like it had been waiting. The wood was dark, almost black, and the handle was iron, curved like a question mark. No keyhole. No markings. Just there.

I remember touching it. It was warm. Not warm like metal left in the sun, but warm like skin. Like someone had just been holding it. There was something breathing behind that door. I could feel it in my teeth.

I didn’t want to open it. But I remembered something strange then. A whisper of a memory: "You already did."

The room darkened as if the air itself was shrinking. And then the carpet smelled of sea salt. Sharp. Nostalgic. Familiar. Like something from before I was born. A lullaby hummed behind the door. Muffled, distorted, like it was being played from underwater.

When I turned around to leave, the room wasn’t mine anymore. It was a hallway of mirrors. But none of them showed me.

In every reflection, a different version of a girl I don't know. Same eyes. Same stare. She mouthed something I couldn’t hear. I leaned closer to one mirror—and this time, her mouth moved slowly enough to understand:

"Don’t forget the name."

I woke up with a ringing in my ears and three tiny red dots on my wrist. They weren’t bites. They weren’t wounds. Just... punctures. Like a code I hadn’t learned to read yet.