The room was already there
before I entered –
a soft geometry of dust
and unspoken hours.
Light leaned against the wall
as if it had been listening
for a long time.
Nothing moved,
yet everything felt mid‑sentence,
paused at the edge
of a thought I hadn’t had yet.
I walked across the floor
and the air shifted,
not welcoming,
not resisting –
simply adjusting
to the shape of me.
A chair waited in the corner,
patient as a question
that knows its answer
will arrive eventually.
I sat,
and the silence settled around me
like a coat I’d forgotten I owned.
Some rooms don’t ask for stories.
They hold space
until you remember
how to breathe again.