The Room of Time

At the far end of the second floor of the old mansion, a dusty door came into view. No matter how many times someone turned the handle, the door seemed unwilling to open. According to legend, no one had ever opened this door for centuries.

I stood before it, and the door seemed to pull at me, as if holding a faint light within its frame.

"Surely not…"

I muttered, gripping the handle. To my surprise, it began to turn. My hand recoiled instinctively.

"Is the legend false?"

After a moment, I gathered my courage and tried again. The door creaked as it slowly swung open.

Inside, a wall-mounted clock without numbers hung silently, its second hand frozen. I stepped closer, my heart pounding, fingers trembling, and touched the hands, setting them to the present time.

Instantly, the air in the room shivered with a heavy, vibrating energy.

The floor and ceiling seemed to flip. The chandelier above appeared to descend, while the carpet beneath seemed to rise overhead.

I inhaled sharply—dust and the scent of old wood stung my nose, and the cold, damp air brushed against my arms and neck. The air felt dense and weighty, and I could feel it sweep past my fingertips with each step I took.

As the spinning air gradually settled, shapes slowly began to emerge. The furniture seemed to wobble, and the light outside the windows rippled like waves.

My father’s heavy footsteps echoed as he moved toward the front door. He and my mother had fought again that day. Silently, he put on his coat and opened the door. Cold wind swept inside the house.

“Dad…” I barely managed to speak. But the words tangled in my throat, refusing to come out. Don’t go. Stay with us… Countless things I wanted to say lingered on my lips, yet I remained silent.

He turned briefly to look at me. His eyes were a mixture of sorrow and weight. I wanted to cry, but my courage failed me. I reached out, but my fingers stiffened.

The door closed slowly, echoing through the house. The cold air brushed my face, and his figure receded into the distance.

That silhouette was the last image of my father I ever held. Later, he died in an accident, and that moment—his back, the closing door—was forever etched into my heart.

Even now, recalling that scene tightens my chest. Why didn’t I say, "Don’t go?" –Why didn’t I linger a little longer, hold him a little closer? The silence of that moment lodged itself like a stone in my heart, heavy and immovable to this day.

Tick-tock…

The second hand of the clock began to spin rapidly, and a flood of memories I had failed to hold onto surged through me.

The day I let my first love walk away, swallowing my tears in a cold silence. The last day with my dog, Teddy, whose wagging tail I failed to embrace long enough.

The day I passed my crying mother’s room without stopping, the day I couldn’t comfort a friend who reached for me, the calls I ignored just yesterday. Each moment raced past like waves with the spinning second hand, crashing against my chest, leaving me with sorrow and regret.

Then, the focus of the spinning clock faltered and slowed, moving at roughly half its previous speed. Faint shapes began to take form. Time yet to come—moments of anxiety, hesitation, standing alone in unfamiliar places, indecision at the crossroads of life—layered faintly before me.

The future revealed itself cautiously. At first, I could not comprehend these scenes, but slowly, I recognized them as me. Past regrets and present fears intertwined, and the life I had yet to live unfolded in front of me.

The room filled with

tick-tick-tick of the clock,

the sound of a long, quiet sigh.

Ding-

Ding-

Ding—

the clock struck twelve.

In that moment, I felt I had to comfort the past me, trapped in guilt and regret. From then on, I began to accept the people and moments I could not hold onto.

“Whatever has passed cannot be changed. Whatever has yet to come is uncertain. And this moment, right now, is mine to choose.”

I steadied myself and stood in the center of the room, gazing at both sides. I reached out to lift a photograph of my younger self; the child smiled softly. I extended my hand to the shadow of my future self; the anxious figure lifted its gaze and looked at me. I quietly understood the tension and caution in those eyes.

At last, I realized: only by living in the present can the time within this room flow. The stagnant air, the mansion itself, even the time within my heart—all began to move again. I inhaled deeply, fully aware of every passing second. Between past and future, I chose the present.

I walked toward the door. As I stepped out, the wind rattled the windows, and dust swirled into the sunlight. The mansion’s halted time, and the time within my own heart, began to flow once more.

From that day on, I have lived each moment fully. The room had been a mirror, reflecting time itself, and a teacher, showing me the meaning of life. I finally understood to truly live in the present is the only way to keep all time moving.