Re: Guest Room Hallway, Third Floor
Noah was lost inside the hotel, which wasn't particularly surprising. Like throwing away the umbrella, avoiding the door that seemed to call his name felt like a necessary thing, lest whatever was controlling him dig its claws in deeper still. He'd come, yes, when he'd seen the message on the leather-bound journal, and he'd walked to the door that felt right, and then he'd turned and walked away.
It was, amazingly, easier than leaving the umbrella in countless bins around Las Vegas in the past weeks. It was, too, easier than his countless attempts to destroy the journal. Whatever compelled him, it seemed to fear the door as much as he did, and for once Noah felt like a semblance of control had been returned to him. He could return to the door, if he wished, he realized. He could be the one who made the choice this once.
For now, he chose to walk away.
He was on the third floor when movement caught his attention, and he turned his face in time to see the man walking down the hall. "A moment!" he called out, sounding young and British. He was dressed in much the same manner - khakis trousers and a gray vest over a white t-shirt, clothing too warm for a Vegas Spring, but that was the norm for Noah. He tapped the umbrella on the floor impatiently, and he waited for the stranger to turn.