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墨書 Inktalez
You push open the door to the lounge, and the light inside is slightly brighter than the corridor, yet still carries a warm, dim hue that invites relaxation. A faint scent of wood lingers in the air, mingling with a hint of age, as if every piece of furniture in the room bears the marks of time.
Two dark brown sofas are positioned in the center of the room, their cushions appearing somewhat sunken, as if they haven't been arranged for a long time. You walk over slowly, your gaze drawn to the surface of the sofa—this isn't ordinary wear and tear. The fabric on the cushions is marred by several chaotic claw marks, with some areas even revealing the stuffing inside.
Furrowing your brow, you bend down to gently touch those marks. Your fingertips glide over the rough fabric, and you can't help but murmur softly, "Is it a cat? But it seems too big..." Instinctively, you gesture to indicate that the spacing of the claw marks far exceeds that of an ordinary house cat; their shape also seems off, as if left by something much larger.
"A Lynx?" you whisper to yourself, a vivid image flashing through your mind: a fluffy Lynx lounging on this sofa, its sharp claws tearing into the cushion while its tail sways gently. The thought makes you chuckle, but then you feel something amiss—how could a hotel allow a Lynx to appear in the lounge? That would be highly unprofessional!
Suddenly, you remember her—the receptionist at the front desk who always wears a gentle smile. She seemed like a professional and cautious person, at least more reliable than this state of claw marks. But where is she now? Why is the counter empty? Why does this place feel like it has been occupied by some unnamed presence?
"Forget it; don't think too much," you shake your head, trying to dismiss these unsettling associations. Straightening up, you shift your gaze to the nearby Beverage Machine. It stands quietly in the corner of the room, its black exterior glimmering faintly, appearing particularly out of place.
You walk over and take a closer look at the drink options: black coffee, Unsweetened Lemon Tea, Pure Water. The font of the options appears faded and blurry around the edges, as if it has been pressed repeatedly. You reach out and press the button for Unsweetened Lemon Tea; the machine emits a low hum followed by a brief silence.
A few seconds later, a cup slides out from the dispenser. The Unsweetened Lemon Tea inside emits a faint sweet-sour aroma, but you notice tiny bubbles floating on its surface—some subtle instability. You pick up the cup and hesitate for a moment before taking a sip. The liquid is cold and tastes much like you expected; however, as you swallow, you feel an almost imperceptible itch deep in your throat, as if something delicate brushed against your windpipe.
You set down the cup and feel your Adam's apple move slightly. The drink seems normal enough in flavor, but that prickling sensation feels like a reminder that something is off. You glance around again—the claw marks on the sofa, the dim lighting, and that black Beverage Machine—all seem to be quietly waiting for something.
You grip the cup tightly and tell yourself, "It's just an illusion brought on by fatigue." Yet deep within you, an unsettling feeling begins to spread slowly like those tiny bubbles floating in Unsweetened Lemon Tea—silently expanding until they transform into invisible shadows hidden within the air.
Holding onto that cup of Unsweetened Lemon Tea, you slowly walk towards the sofa and sink into its cushions. "Hmm..." you murmur softly; however, the sensation upon sitting is far from what it appeared to be. The cushion is much firmer than you imagined—almost like a thin layer of fabric stretched over an old wooden board. You shift your body in search of a more comfortable position, but no matter how you adjust it feels wrong; it seems that whatever stuffing was once there has long lost its elasticity and now remains only as some rigid remnant.
You sigh and look towards the coffee table ahead. A television sits silently atop it, its screen as dark as a mirror reflecting both the sofa and room's lighting. You reach out to explore for the remote control beside the sofa armrest in hopes of bringing some life into this deadened lounge. However, the gap beside the armrest is surprisingly deep; it feels like entering a secret space cluttered with too many hidden items filled with broken debris and strange textures.
Your fingers brushed against something hard, like a broken piece of plastic; a soft, damp tuft; and even something smooth and cold, resembling metal or glass. You instinctively frowned and pulled your hand back, your fingertips lingering with an indescribable scent—a faint mustiness mixed with a hint of something sweet and fishy.
As you hesitated, debating whether to continue exploring, your hand encountered an unusual texture—rough, dry, with frayed edges. You grasped it and gently pulled it out, revealing a crumpled brown paper bag before your eyes.
The surface of the bag was covered in creases and stains, its corners frayed from long-term handling, making it look like discarded trash. You squeezed it slightly and felt several sheets of paper inside. Carefully, you unfolded it, and the writing on the inner side immediately caught your attention—illegible scrawls curled awkwardly in the corners of the bag, the ink smudged in places, some even blurred by water stains.
Though the ink had spread somewhat on the paper, you could still make out the words:
"Question: Why are there claw marks on the sofa?
Answer: Because they always wanted to sit down, but they... have no butts."
You stared at these lines, your mind blank. This was nothing like the strange message you had anticipated—it felt more like drunken ramblings left behind by someone.
At the bottom of the bag were a few additional lines:
"Another question: What exactly are they?
Another answer: You'd better not know."
You couldn't help but roll your eyes and tossed the paper bag back into the gap beside the sofa armrest, thinking to yourself, "I can't believe my heart raced over such nonsense."
Still, you instinctively shifted your body slightly away from where those claw marks were—though perhaps it was just a cold joke about having no butts.
With a silent sigh, you tossed that paper bag back into the sofa's crevice and continued to search along the armrest. However, the remote seemed to have vanished into thin air; no matter how hard you looked, it was nowhere to be found. You rummaged through the sofa's gaps, your fingers brushing against some crumbs and fabric lint balls, yet you remained empty-handed.
"Forget it, I'll just walk over and press it myself," you mutter to yourself, trying to convince yourself not to be lazy. You lift your cup of Unsweetened Lemon Tea, take a sip, and place the cup on the long table in front of you. The amber liquid reflects a faint glow under the light, adding a touch of life to the room.
You slowly stand up and walk toward the television. The floor creaks slightly with each step, breaking the stillness of the air. The television stands quietly behind the coffee table, its screen covered in a fine layer of dust, with faint fingerprints marking the corners. You bend down, pressing your finger against the well-worn button on the TV, feeling how the plastic edges have become smooth from repeated use.
"Alright, let's give it a try," you say softly as you press down gently, but nothing happens.
Frowning, you press a few more times. Each "click" resonates lightly with every push, as if some dormant components inside the television are being awakened. Finally, accompanied by a faint hum, the screen flickers to life—the vacuum tube begins to warm up, emitting a low drone. A few seconds later, an image appears on the screen—it’s an old movie.
The black-and-white footage shudders slightly, displaying faint stripes like an old projector struggling to work. On screen is a man dressed in mid-century attire, his hat pulled low over half his face. He sits on a wooden chair, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth, shrouding the dimly lit room behind him.
You pause for a moment, feeling that this film seems somewhat familiar, yet you can’t recall its name at all. It feels like a blurred image pulled from deep within your memory, carrying some ambiguous emotion and elusive details.
The man on screen lifts his head, revealing deep-set eyes. His lips move slightly as if he’s saying something. But when the sound comes through, it’s drowned out by static from the television, leaving only fragmented phrases:
"...you think... safe?"
You furrow your brow and try to adjust the volume but can't find the corresponding button; all you can do is continue staring at the screen. The man's gaze becomes increasingly fixed on you through the television as if he’s looking directly at you, stirring a sense of unease within.
"Have I really seen this movie before?" you whisper to yourself, but no answer comes to mind.
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