Hotel Plovdiv looms like a forgotten specter against the backdrop of the city, its peeling facade whispering secrets of those who once lingered within its cold walls. The air is thick with an unsettling chill, as if the building itself breathes through the lingering disembodied voices that echo through shadowed corridors, murmuring tales best left unspoken. Guests have learned to dread the icy caress of the air that wraps around them, an embrace that hints at unseen presences watching, waiting for the right moment to reclaim their earthly perch.

Beneath the twisted boughs of ancient oaks in the garden of Hotel Rusalka, shadows weave between the thick underbrush, echoing the whispers of the city's forgotten legends. At night, the air thickens with the faint sound of laughter, both alluring and mournful, as if the spirits of long-lost lovers roam the grounds, their chilling presence a reminder that not all guests check out. Those who linger too long often find themselves paralyzed by unseen eyes, staring out from the mist that rises like frost-cold breath in the dark, beckoning them deeper into a world where forgetting comes at a terrible price.