The night the lights went out,
I thought the room would finally rest –
a quiet box sealed in its own darkness,
undisturbed, unremarkable.
But in the hush,
new shapes kept appearing on the shelves:
small gleams, faint outlines,
as if the dark itself
had decided to keep score.
I hadn’t touched a thing.
I couldn’t.
The room was locked,
the switch dead,
the door long closed behind me.
Yet there they were –
proof that some truths
don’t wait for permission,
and some rooms
keep living without their owner.
When the lights returned,
I didn’t bother turning them up.
I’d already seen enough to know this:
some things shine
even after you’re gone.