The room you forgot to lock

I hold so much, yet I own so little. The laughs, the tears, the voices of those who once lived in me are absorbed by my walls — replayed in echoes, day after day.

You have changed, haven't you? You won't crawl on the floor, reaching your hand for the bed to get up. Will you mark me with the memories? Draw on me those confused landscapes, where trees grew out of roofs and cows flew in the sky? Those sketches might be smudged by time, but the ink still seeps into me. It still makes me another fragment of who you used to be when you were free.

Dolls with marker-streaked hair, stuffed dogs and bears darkened by dust, and a pile of storybooks stuffed in a shelf are all that remain to remind me of you. I remember the times you screamed at your mom to let you colour your hair, then I remember the nights she read you your favorite stories while you hugged her side softly. The stories were all that made your world before math and science overcrowded your head. That's when your toys found a place in your bed, and your late nights were instead occupied with SAT prep. 

When you left, your mom took all your toys and set them on the bed. As if their existence in the open would keep a fragment of you alive in the house. You barely called as time passed by, and soon, your family left home —  haunted by the memories.

The smoke of the past fills the air now. The furniture is suffocated by a layer of dust and mites, the distant chitter of unknown insects the only sound that fills me. 

You left my door unlocked. I wonder if it was deliberate. 

I try to see outside in the world, but a small glimpse of the nascent world is not enough. I was never enough for you, was I? You left to find yourself, and locked me in a world without you.

Is it selfish to search for yourself? Or is it cruel, to leave everything behind?

While the passage of time deceives me now, the sound of your distant footsteps this morning is unmistakable. They are heavier now — but still, the right foot lands first.

It's you, isn't it? 

Your hand drags across the dusty railing of the staircase; a soft scrape. You cough once. The voice is unfamiliar — older, huskier. I hear you murmur to yourself. My door creaks open.

Light floods me. Your blonde hair has streaks of pink in it, and that makes me smile. You close the door behind you. You step into me, looking around like I was someone alien. Your eyes fill with tears, and you drop to your knees. If I had arms, I would have held you. If I had life, I would have comforted you despite you having left me alone all those years ago.

You collapse onto the floor, knees whispering across my wood. Your fingers find the bedpost—an old instinct. You reach for the bear, the one missing an eye, and cradle it like it still knows the stories she told.

I want to hold you. But I am only a room.

I try to talk to you. I try to scream that your mom still lives in your heart, but your tears fall quietly on the sheets, unaware of my efforts. Whatever shall I do to help you? What should I do to make you realise that no matter what happens, I will always persist for you?

My helplessness chokes me. Your sobs pool in the silence, and I can do nothing—nothing—except want.

Light. You need light. 

I reach for it in the only way I know. Something shifts. A storybook slips from the shelf and hits the floor. You look up. Still trembling, still broken—but now you’re listening.

You crawl forward, eyes landing on the cover. The one she used to read.

I strain.

The door opens.

Light pours in like breath after drowning.

You whisper something.

“Mom?”