A remote boarding house. An endless blizzard. A copper token around your neck that will not warm.

You do not remember how you got here. The Caretaker does not ask. She gives you tea, a narrow bed, and three rules: do not wind the hallway clock, do not open the north door after sunset, do not ask about the basement.

The house is warm. The fire never goes out. The other boarders are quiet and kind in the way of people who have learned not to ask questions.

But the clock in the hallway is frozen at 3:17. The radio sometimes speaks names. And behind a curtain in the pantry, narrow stairs lead down to shelves of things that belonged to people who forgot them.

Your token is cold. The Caretaker says it will warm when you remember something. She does not say what happens if you do not.

Slow-burn quiet horror. No romance. No combat. Just cold, memory, and the door you are not supposed to open.