lden core in Henry’s skull.

It was the same rhythm that had lulled him to sleep in that摇椅, that hummed from the garbage-filled TV, that vibrated in the pumpkin pie crust Frannie baked with trembling hands.

The rhythm of home.

His knees buckled.

Not from weakness.

From recognition.

As he sank onto the silent carpet, the red crystals flared blindingly bright, and from the walls, from the floor, from the very air, countless whispers rose—not in words, but in tones, in cadences, in the exact pitch and timbre of every person he’d ever known who’d stepped into the Hotel of Screams:

*“Welcome back.”*

*“We missed you.”*

*“Dinner’s ready.”*

*“Happy birthday, Chef.”*

The last whisper wasn’t spoken.

It was sung.

A child’s voice, off-key, cheerful, carrying the unmistakable lilt of a pumpkin-headed girl humming through a mouthful of frosting.

问号先生仰面倒下。

后脑触及绒毯的瞬间，他看见天花板银茧轰然碎裂。

无数银丝如雨落下，每一根都缠绕着一枚微小的、正在发芽的南瓜种子。

种子落地即生根，藤蔓疯长，眨眼间覆盖整面墙壁，开出数十朵硕大南瓜花。花瓣层层剥落，露出内里……不是果实。

是一张张熟悉的脸。

弗兰的笑脸。

罗狄的笑脸。

房东的笑脸。

亨特的笑脸。

还有……他自己年轻时的脸，穿着旧式校服，站在第七中学食堂门口，手里捧着一份热腾腾的南瓜派，朝镜头腼腆地笑。

他伸出手，想触碰那张脸。

指尖却穿过花瓣，只沾上一滴温热的、琥珀色的露水。

露水坠落，在即将触地时，化作一声轻叹：

“……终于，找到你了。”

话音落。

所有南瓜花 simultaneous withered.

藤蔓枯槁断裂。

墙壁崩塌，露出后面无尽的、缓缓旋转的纯白。

而在那纯白深处，一个身影正背对他，静静伫立。

围裙洁白，刀光凛冽。

亨特缓缓转过身。

脸上没有伤疤，没有血洞，没有螺旋手臂。

只有一双清澈得令人心悸的眼睛，望着他，像望着一个失散多年的兄弟