The worn, wooden floors whined with even the slightest motion, though the walls showed no sign of age. Paint, the color of a timber wolf’s splendid coat, still dripped into pools that seeped into the crevices of the floorboards, melding the old with the new. A trinity of windows, each depicting a different time, a different place, interrupted the sea of gray on the walls.

Through the first, a dismal sky lingered; an inescapable blanket of mist suffocating the sunlight and engulfing the figures that loomed in the distance—and, as it seemed, any happiness. Through another, a dormant volcano whimpered and moaned, signaling an impending titanic eruption. However, a lavish display of color, and millions of trees and flowers feasted from the very heart of the earth, and smoothed its jagged edges. The last was the most pleasant of them all, for through it, a brisk wind swept through an endless forest of crimson gold foliage, the tickling pungency of cinnamon kindling intangible warmth from within. Prismatic light combined the colors from each of the scenes, and cast an eerie, rainbow glow that filtered through a veil of curtains, trembling like billows of smoke in the breeze.

The room itself was mostly empty, except for a regal bed that occupied the center of the room and two nightstands that clung to it on either side. Seemed to have been an afterthought, an addition to make the room more inviting, the bed looked out of place, uncomfortable. It was piled high with meticulously placed pillows and blankets, and the sheets below it were ironed smooth and taut. Everything was so perfectly situated that it seemed the bed was less often slept upon than gazed upon, in wonder and speculation.

Two identical tables framed the bed, though the contents of each created a clear sense of imbalance within the room, a definitive line of separation. Evidently, conflicting personalities had battled here for years, and would never be able to compromise. One of the tables was home to a library of neglected reads and notebooks, concealed beneath a shroud of dust. They appeared to have been untouched since the time when the clocks seemed to run a little slower, and dreams lent themselves to reality. Remnants of friendships present and past adorned the other stand, keepsakes of pleasant memories before they ultimately dissolved into contests of popularity and spiteful disputes. Some pictures were well maintained and unblemished, while others were tainted, visually and in spirit. On the shelves below, boxes of needles and thread lay immaculately, never fetched from the darkness to mend bonds that were far past shattered.

Despite its vacancy, the room bustled with energy—as if the souls of empty promises and tortured pain were trapped within the confines of those same grizzly walls. The vibration of these ghastly memories clashed with melodies of nostalgia in a most irritating manner. It was difficult to imagine how one could be at peace, how one could rest in this environment; and it seemed that no one had.
The menacing wraiths and beasts of chaos threateningly growled and hummed within the woven baskets, cabinets, and drawers that contained them. They pushed and ate away at their homes, and while they were concealed from any guests, it was clear that their peripheries were much too small for them. This aggression of forces created the looming possibility of an explosion. Very soon, it seemed, the space would not look the same.

Change was constantly a threat to the perfection of the room. Even the most insignificant aspects of the room, like the paint color, or even the comforter that may have gotten one night of use in its lifetime, would completely change the atmosphere, the dynamic of the space. However, the spirits of sorrow that slowly sucked away the happiness, the life of the room, would always remain. The beauty of its fierce independence and its walls full of secrets would cease to exist someday in the future. The day will come when the volcano erupts, igniting a wildfire in the stunning forest. The smog from each of the open, now apocalyptic windows would consume the very soul of the beloved chambers, as it had with everything else. At that point in time, the room, a personality and a story within itself, would explode in slow motion, eating away at every last inch of wood, fabric, plaster, and vitality. And when the room is no longer perfect, no longer active, no longer loved, it will fade to black.