Every surface is spotless, every sound is gone — except the echo of a memory that refuses to stay buried.
Prompt:
She woke up with a scream caught halfway between dream and memory.
The walls were a blinding white—too clean, too deliberate. No windows. No doors she could see. Only the sterile hum of a light that never flickered. Her pulse quickened as she pressed her hands against the walls; they were cold, like hospital metal, like the edge of a secret she wasn’t meant to touch. A faint mark—a single fingerprint—stood out on the far corner, as if someone else had once tried to escape. She whispered her name to the silence, but even her voice sounded foreign. Then she saw it: a small camera, hidden high above, the red light blinking. Someone was watching. The realization hit her harder than fear itself. She’d been here before.
Question for Readers:
If you woke up in this room, what would you do first — scream, search, or stay silent and listen?