“Room 307”
by J.R. Anonymus
It was supposed to be a business trip. Check in, handshake, check out.
It was supposed to be a business trip.
One night. In and out. Shake hands, sign the papers, fly home.
But the universe had other plans.
He arrived at the Hotel Santa Caterina just before sunset. The cliffside property was carved into the rock like a forgotten secret, overlooking a sea so blue it looked unreal. The air carried whispers of salt and lemon blossom, and the marble steps leading to the lobby felt warm from the day’s sun.
He was used to places like this — the kind with cold champagne and warmer lies. Still, something about this hotel felt different. Softer. Like a memory waiting to happen.
His room was 306. Hers, apparently, 307.
They met in the elevator.
It wasn’t dramatic — no spilled coffee or fateful touches. Just a glance, then another, and then that small, universal smile of two strangers quietly wondering what if.
She was barefoot, holding her heels in one hand, with salt-tangled hair and the kind of dress that moved like water. “Long day?” she asked, her voice husky, like she’d been laughing all afternoon.
“Not long enough,” he replied, surprising himself.
The elevator dinged. Both pressed the same floor. She laughed.
By the time they stepped out, there was no going back.
They had drinks on the terrace bar — a smoky Negroni for him, a glass of chilled Falanghina for her. She told him she was a photographer here for a shoot. He said he was in tech, here for a meeting he hoped would cancel. They didn’t talk about jobs again.
Later, on the balcony of her room, they shared stories instead of facts. Childhood memories. People they missed. The last time they cried in front of someone. She talked about Istanbul in the rain. He admitted he’d never really been in love.
They danced barefoot on marble floors to an old jazz record playing from the room’s Bluetooth speaker. When the song ended, neither moved.
Around midnight, she dared him to jump into the rooftop pool — fully clothed. He said no. She smirked, said “I didn’t think you would,” and leapt first.
He followed.
Security came. They ran through stone corridors, dripping, barefoot and breathless, laughing like teenagers. When they reached her room again, the power flickered out — the hotel caught in a rare blackout. Candles were lit. And the world stood still.
They kissed in the soft orange light, skin warm from the chase, eyes wide open.
He never asked her last name. She never offered it.
They talked until dawn, lying under thin hotel sheets, the Mediterranean humming quietly outside the open window. When she finally fell asleep on his shoulder, he didn’t move. Not for hours.
By morning, she was gone.
Room 307 was spotless — her suitcase, her shoes, even the tiny camera she carried everywhere… all vanished. All that remained was a single espresso on the balcony. Still warm. And a room key with a lipstick kiss on the tag.
He asked the front desk if she’d checked out. They couldn’t find her name in the system.
She hadn’t really checked in at all.
Now, once a year, on the same date, he returns to Room 306. He never books it under his name. He never tells anyone why. He simply waits, orders two espressos at sunrise, and watches the balcony next door.
Just in case.
Story Location: Hotel Santa Caterina, Amalfi Coast, Italy
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