Beneath the tropical sun, Hotel Plaza Cozumel stood like a faded postcard from the 1970s, its once-vibrant facade now draped in shadows that whispered secrets of the past. Guests often awoke to the unsettling echo of footsteps patrolling empty hallways, and the uneasy sensation of icy fingers trailing down their arms, a ghostly caress that lingered long after the light flickered out. They would leave with stories woven into their dreams-stories that turned their nights into relentless harbingers of something longing to be remembered, yet best left forgotten.

Beneath the swaying palms of Hotel Villablanca, shadows twist and flicker like whispers among the forgotten flora, where guests have caught fleeting glimpses of ethereal figures gliding through the night-blooming jasmine. The air is thick with an unsettling quiet, pierced only by the distant echo of laughter that seems to dance just beyond the threshold of sanity, luring the unsuspecting deeper into the haunted embrace of the garden. As night drapes its velvety cloak, an oppressive weight settles over the hotel, a suffocating reminder that some spirits refuse to leave, and those who wander too close may not leave at all.