The Archivist's Room

You inherit a room from a relative you never met, and everything in it remembers. The study has been sealed for longer than the building has stood. Inside: a desk, a fire that should be cold but is not, and objects from centuries that have no business sharing a room. Five of them glow warm. Touch one and you are somewhere else. Lisbon, 1487: a cartographer's maps, and the Inquisition on the stair. Paris, 1943: a table of forged papers, and boots in the street. London, 1665: a plague doctor's sealed journal. Istanbul, 1798: a star chart with a margin full of names. Vienna, 1962: a photograph, and a woman who has been waiting for you her whole life. Each memory ends in one choice between two things you could do. Choose as the Archivist would, and you keep the whole clue; choose otherwise, and it comes back hazy. Every clue goes into your journal, and five clues make one answer: who kept this room, and why. The other objects in the room glow cool. They have no memories, only a line each, and one of them is the start of something the room does not explain. There is no timer and no way to lose. A story takes a sitting; it saves after every memory, so you can stop and come back. Any memory can be lived again to choose otherwise. Your score is the story you found: every memory relived, every true choice, every corner examined, and the ending watched to its last line. Played with a finger or a mouse in landscape, or with the keys or a gamepad. Everything plays signed out; only the leaderboard needs an account.