The Room That Waits

The room is always there. It exists beyond time, beyond memory, a place never visited yet somehow known. The walls stretch too high, their corners lost in shadow, their surfaces smooth yet shifting, like something alive beneath the paint. A single chair sits in the center, facing a door that does not open. The air is thick, heavy with something unseen, something waiting.

There is no sound, yet silence itself hums. A low vibration that settles in the bones, in the mind. The light flickers, but there is no source, no lamps, no windows. It simply is, casting shadows that move when they shouldn’t, stretching and curling like fingers reaching for something just beyond their grasp.

Footsteps echo where no one walks. The chair remains empty, yet the impression of weight lingers, as if someone has just risen, just stepped away. The door does not open, but sometimes. Just for a moment. It feels as though it might. The air shifts, the silence deepens, and something unseen stirs in the waiting.