The silence in the hotel is nearly absolute, disturbed only by the creak of settling timbers and the occasional sigh of wind. On the far wall, a row of antique mirrors stands, their silvered surfaces clouded with time. Tonight, beneath the rare, pale light of February 29th, the mirrors shimmer with anticipation, as if awakening from a four-year slumber.
In the largest mirror, a woman’s silhouette becomes visible. She stands in a doorway, suitcase in hand, her face drawn with worry and hope. Her image is out of place in the decay, dressed in a yellow raincoat spattered with rain, her hair clinging to her cheeks. She glances nervously over her shoulder, lips moving as if rehearsing a question she has not yet asked.
She hesitates at the threshold, peering into the gloom. The lobby seems to breathe in anticipation, shadows shifting as if to greet her. She takes a cautious step forward, suitcase wheels squeaking, her reflection in the mirror watching her every move.
The Woman: A lost traveler searching for answers, courageous yet uncertain.
The Bellhop: A spectral presence, gentle and melancholy, bound to the hotel.
"Welcome back,"
"I’ve never been here before," she whispers, heart pounding.
"We have all been here, in one way or another. The mirrors remember,"
She steps closer, mesmerized as fragments of laughter and tears flicker in silvered glass. Each leap year, the hotel’s ghosts relive their stories, waiting for someone new to arrive and add their reflection to the procession. The woman feels tears prick her eyes, recognizing a longing that echoes her own.
The Bellhop tips his hat, fading with the night’s last shadows. The mirrors cloud over, returning to their timeless slumber, already waiting for the next leap year’s guest. The hotel is silent once again, but a sense of peace lingers, as if the building itself has exhaled.
