(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.”
To whom?
(Takes the letter, reads silently. Her expression doesn’t change.) This is not a confession, Mr. Julian. This is a goodbye. European Hotel Confessions- Scene 1
(Whispers) I never told anyone I was afraid of elevators.
(Smiles, picks up the bell, does not ring it) You just did. (Leans forward, lowering her voice) That the elevator
(Sets down the glass) In this city, everyone leaves a forwarding address. You just have to know which cemetery to ask.
(Pulls the crumpled letter from his pocket) I found this. Under the mattress. Not my handwriting. Not my name. But my room. But the mirror was fogged
I already have a room. 217.
(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.