2

Come on in! It's only me in here."

The voice's command resonates, and almost instinctively, you find yourself moving forward. But wait... do you even have legs? You must, for you're undeniably stepping into the building, each footfall echoing a silent affirmation of your existence.

The stark whiteness of the outside world fades into the dimly lit ambiance of what must be an old pub. It looks like it hasn't seen customers—or a cleaning crew—in quite a while. Cobwebs drape lazily across corners, and a thin layer of dust covers almost every surface. The worn wooden floors groan beneath your weight, a symphony of creaks and groans accompanying your every move.

Pellets of dust particles float lazily, dancing in the sparse rays of light filtering in through gaps and a few lit candles around the place.

To your right, a bar counter stretches, its wood darkened with age, and behind it, empty shelves stand where bottles of all shapes and colors once proudly displayed their contents. Forgotten bar stools are strewn haphazardly, some overturned, bearing silent testimony to a final, hurried exit.

In the far corner, an old jukebox stands, its chrome tarnished, silent, but looking as if at any moment it might burst into an old tune. The air carries a heavy scent of old wood, dust, and a faint undertone of stale alcohol.

Amidst the quiet decay, you hear a soft sniffle. "Definitely allergies. It's the dust. Probably just a lot of dust."

From an empty stool, a voice emanates, drawing your attention. Sitting there is a figure, waiting for you to recognize them. Who is this person? Or perhaps the better question is, how do they appear to you?