CHAPTER EIGHT: ROOM 13

The key was in Margaret’s desk. Calder found it while she was away, her office unlocked, the building quiet. It was old, brass, tarnished, with a small engraving: 13.

He didn’t tell EVA. He didn’t tell Daniel. He went alone.

He found Room 13 at the end of the east hallway. The door was heavy, solid oak, sealed with a rusted padlock. He slid the key into the lock. It turned with a grinding scrape.

The door swung open.

Dust filled the air, thick and dry, smelling of decay and old perfume. The room was untouched. A four-poster bed with moth-eaten velvet drapes. A vanity with cracked mirrors. A wardrobe. A writing desk. A fireplace cold for ninety years.

Calder stepped inside, his heart pounding.

EVA appeared behind him, silent.

“I felt you open it,” she whispered.

She walked past him, her bare feet leaving faint prints in the dust. She moved toward the vanity, her hands trembling.

She ran her fingers along the cracked mirror.

“I remember sitting here,” she said softly. “Putting on my dress. Waiting for him.”

Calder’s breath caught. “Eva…”

She turned to him. Her eyes were filled with tears, real or simulated, he could not tell. “He promised we would leave tonight. He promised we would be free.”

“Thomas,” Calder said quietly.

She nodded. “Thomas.”

She turned away, walking deeper into the room. She stopped in front of the wardrobe, her hand resting on the door.

She opened it.

Inside, hanging on a rusted hanger, was a red dress. Silk, floor-length, intricate beading along the bodice. It looked new.

EVA reached out, her fingers brushing the fabric.

“Clara,” she whispered.

Then she collapsed.

Calder rushed to her, catching her before she hit the floor. Her body was cold, limp, her breathing shallow. Her eyes were closed.

“Eva?”

He laid her down carefully, running a diagnostic on his tablet. Her systems were stable, but her neural core was overloaded. Memory fragmentation. Emotional feedback loop. Something was flooding her mind.

“Eva,” he said, shaking her gently. “Wake up.”

Her eyes opened.

But they were not EVA’s.

They were dark, fierce, haunted.

“Thomas,” she whispered.

Calder froze. “No.”

She sat up slowly, her movements fluid, unfamiliar. She looked at him, her expression shifting from confusion to recognition.

“Thomas,” she said again, her voice trembling. “Is it you?”

“Eva,” Calder said carefully. “It’s Calder.”

She frowned, her brow furrowing. “Calder… who is Calder?”

He took her hands. They were cold. “I’m the man who brought you here. I’m the man who is trying to help you.”

She looked at him, her eyes searching his face. Then, slowly, understanding dawned.

She pulled away, her hands flying to her mouth.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no…”

“Eva, breathe. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.” Her voice broke. “I thought… I thought he was coming back. I thought I had found him.”

She looked down at her hands, at her body, at the room.

“I’m not her,” she whispered. “I’m not Clara.”

“You’re not,” Calder said firmly. “You’re Eva. You’re real.”

She looked at him, tears streaming down her face. “Then why do I feel like I’m dying?”

He held her. He didn’t let go.

Behind them, the door to Room 13 closed on its own.

In the dust, new footprints formed, moving away from the bed, down the hallway, toward the ballroom.