(Sets down the glass) In this city, everyone leaves a forwarding address. You just have to know which cemetery to ask.
(Shakes rain from his hat) The ghost checked out. 1923. No forwarding address.
(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. European Hotel Confessions- Scene 1
(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.”
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. (Sets down the glass) In this city, everyone
(Pulls the crumpled letter from his pocket) I found this. Under the mattress. Not my handwriting. Not my name. But my room.
To whom?
I already have a room. 217.