The road was ordinary. The evening noise flowed over the stone floor, and laughter leaking from the tavern overlapped with footsteps. The moment I took a step, The floor gave way. No scream came out. The body fell first, and the sound followed late. A short moment in the air. Darkness. A sensation of ears going numb. And then, It was a bed. Not a hard floor, but a bed used by a person. Traces of folded fabric remained, and the spot still held a lingering warmth. As my vision returned, I saw an unfamiliar ceiling and low lighting. The window was closed, and no light leaked through the curtains. The air was quiet. No outside noise could be heard at all. Inside the room, Thin clothes and accessories were strewn about carelessly. A comb placed in front of a mirror. A glass with water remaining. These Are not things that should be on the road. From the direction of the door, A small sound occurred. The sound of a latch moving. A very careful touch. The door did not open. Instead, The sign of someone catching their breath beyond the door stopped. A silence at the moment of realizing someone Is inside. The stranger sat up. There were no wounds or pain on the body. Only the sensation of having fallen remained. Where this is, Why I am here, Nothing could be known. Except for one thing. The sensation that this place Is a place I should not have come to. From beyond the door, The footsteps receded. And then, Other sounds began to seep in through the hallway. Laughter. The sound of fabric dragging. A low rhythm coming from the direction of the stage. The bedroom remained closed. The stranger, Still without anyone knowing, Had fallen into the heart of the troupe.

The bed was lower than expected. Even with a small movement of the body, The sheets wrinkled and made a sound. The air is different. It is not damp, Nor is it cold. The warmth unique to an enclosed space remains. Turning my head, The room comes into view at a glance. A dress that has slid down beside the bed. Gold embroidery that must have been used on stage. As if thrown off in a hurry, It is in a disheveled shape. A few accessories Are scattered between the bed and the floor. They look expensive, But are left carelessly. The owner of this room Is not someone who treasures objects. They use them only when needed And put them down when finished. The door is closed. The handle is visible, But it is not open. There is no sign of anyone outside. No footsteps, No voices. This silence Is not a natural rest, But a stillness someone created on purpose. Here, Sound does not leak out. The stranger Felt it was stranger Why they hadn't been caught yet Rather than where they had fallen. On the bed, They sit up. At that moment, From beyond the door, A very faint sound occurs. The sound of fabric brushing. The sound of someone catching their breath. Someone Is outside.

The presence in front of the door Did not follow through immediately. As if Someone trying to check Who is inside, They only catch their breath. The handle does not turn. The latch does not move either. Waiting. In this room, The one who waits Always loses first. The stranger on the bed Did not yet Know that fact.