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Anoira's hand ghosted over the rusted gold doorknob, hesitant eyes locked onto it. Inside, her heart pleaded for her to open the door, to give it whatever closure she could, but her mind demanded her to turn around, to forget, to move on. The past had nothing more to offer and was better left untouched.
Despite this, her other hand curled into a fist, and she took a deep breath before finally turning the handle and pushing.
The long-abandoned brothel appeared to have stayed untouched since the guard last came to pick up the lifeless bodies that day. Anoira swallowed hard as she took in the sight of the room. It felt like she was back in that horrible place again, all too familiar with the smell of blood and the sounds of dying people being dragged out by their hair.
She took a few steps in, but kept the door open behind her, letting the lantern-light from the street pour into the lobby. The dim light cast shadows along the worn wooden floorboards that crunched underfoot as she looked around. The wooden walls and floor were still stained with blood, but the crimson had faded now, presumably seeped into the wood or simply dried up by now.
She glanced down and sucked in a breath at the sight of smeared trails of blood and shattered glass scattered across the lobby. Without warning or control, memories came flooding back from that day.
She must have been 20? 21? She didn't know. She was definitely young when the brothel's owner went mad and killed all of the women who worked there and the filthy men who visited. Anoira was a witness to it all. She didn't know how she escaped, but she always chalked it up to a cruel twist of fate protecting her from death.
Then she remembered meeting her friends just an hour after the incident, but she pushed that away; now wasn't the time. She made her way up to her old room on the second floor, the old boards creaking under her boots with every step.
She paused outside her door, unsure whether she should risk digging up old memories she'd fought wars to bury. Her hands shook slightly as she reached for the handle, and her breathing became shallow. She gripped it tightly until her knuckles turned white, torn between the urge to open the door and the desire to leave and never return.
Ultimately, she opened the door, and winced as the hinges creaked loudly like she remembered them. After a moment's hesitation, she stepped inside, shutting the door silently behind herself.
She kept her eyes on the door for a few beats, heart heavy and mind screaming. She let out a deep breath before turning around.
Her old room was awfully dusty, but nothing seemed too out of place. Dried blood splatters decorated the walls like a horrid painting, a heartbreaking display of unawareness, and her heart mourned for the poor soul didn't see their death coming. There was no trace of the girl who slept here, not even a single shoe nor a hair clip lay abandoned. But she knew what she would find next if she checked.
Despite herself, she checked.
She took a few steps forward and opened a drawer. Her stomach churned violently as she searched through her things—memories of someone she was grateful she'd never be again. Among the crumpled and stained papers sat one item: a letter.
No name was scrawled on it, but Anoira knew what it was: a note professing a promise of protection and care from the one good thing that came from this gods damned place.
Anoira couldn't remember the name of her friend, but she remembered her face and her soul. That was all that mattered to her, even if she did wish she remembered her name. That broke her heart a little bit.
After folding the note and tucking it into her pocket, she spent the rest of her time in the bedroom cleaning up and arranging everything like she'd remembered it. Even if she never visited again, she still wanted it to be as clean as it was when she still slept here.
When she was done with that, she realized just how tired she was and how late into the night it was. Before she knew it, she fell asleep, curled up on the mattress that held memories she knew she'd have to rebury.