(Leans forward, lowering her voice) That the elevator you just walked past? Last Tuesday, at 3:47 a.m., it stopped between floors. When we opened the door, there was no one inside. But the mirror was fogged. And someone had written in the steam: “Room 217 forgives you.”

(Without looking up) We have no vacancies.

(Shakes rain from his hat) The ghost checked out. 1923. No forwarding address. European Hotel Confessions- Scene 1

(Glances) Ah. The man who requested no wake-up calls and extra pillows to build a fortress. You are back early. I thought you were chasing a ghost in the Third District.

A small, dimly lit hotel lobby in Vienna. Late autumn. Rain streaks the window. An ancient elevator with a folding metal gate stands stage left. A front desk with a brass bell and a leather guest book. (Leans forward, lowering her voice) That the elevator

(Takes the letter, reads silently. Her expression doesn’t change.) This is not a confession, Mr. Julian. This is a goodbye.

(Whispers) I never told anyone I was afraid of elevators. But the mirror was fogged

(Pulls the crumpled letter from his pocket) I found this. Under the mattress. Not my handwriting. Not my name. But my room.