The Empty Room

The Empty Room

By Abdul malik

The house hadn’t changed much.

The wooden wind chimes still clinked softly at the porch, just like they did when I was ten. The steps creaked in the same exact spots, and the front door stuck the same way it always had. I could almost hear my dad muttering, “Gotta fix that one day.” But he never did.

Now, he never will.

I stood in the hallway for a moment, holding the key tightly in my hand. The silence felt heavy, like the walls knew something was missing. I wasn’t ready for this—not really. I had flown in just two days after the funeral. My brother had said, “We’ll do it together.” But when the time came, he stayed in the car.

So it was just me. And the room.

Dad’s room.

I turned the knob slowly, as if expecting him to still be there, lying on his worn-out recliner watching old westerns. The door creaked open. Dust floated in the sunbeams, like tiny ghosts dancing in the still air.

The room smelled faintly of his cologne. Sharp, woody. I had always hated it growing up. Now, I couldn’t stop breathing it in.

The bed was made. Sloppily, but made. A stack of folded T-shirts sat at the edge, the top one wrinkled as if he had planned to wear it but changed his mind. His slippers were by the bed, slightly apart. Waiting.

I sat down carefully, not sure if it was okay. As if sitting would erase him. I looked around.

The first thing I picked up was his old camera. Heavy, black, and scratched at the edges. I opened the case. Inside were a few developed photos—mostly trees, birds, clouds. But then, there was one of me, maybe five years old, holding up a frog and grinning with missing teeth. I didn’t even remember that day.

He must’ve been watching. Quietly, behind the lens.

Next was his drawer. I hesitated before opening it. It felt… private. But he wasn’t here to mind, was he?

Inside, a folded newspaper clipping—my college graduation announcement, printed in the town paper. I had sent it to him, not expecting much. He never replied. But here it was, creased at the edges like he had read it over and over again.

Below it, a ticket stub to one of my school plays. I had searched the crowd that night and didn’t see him. But maybe he sat in the back. Maybe he came and left quietly.

Maybe he never stopped caring.

I looked at the nightstand. A stack of books. One was about growing tomatoes, with a yellowed bookmark halfway through. Another was about astronomy. He once told me stars were like secrets in the sky.

I smiled at that.

In the bottom drawer of his dresser was a box labeled "Keep." I sat cross-legged and lifted the lid.

Inside were letters. Not from me, but from my mother. Letters from before they divorced. Letters full of hope, and laughter, and silly jokes in bad handwriting. One said, “You’ll be a good father, I just know it.”

And then I cried.

Not the loud kind, just the quiet type where tears fall without asking permission. Because I realised I never really knew who he was. I only knew the version of him I had built in my head—gruff, distant, always tired. But maybe that wasn’t the whole picture. Maybe it never is.

I stayed in that room for hours. Not rushing. Just… sitting with him. In a way I never did when he was alive.

As the sun began to set, painting the room gold, I stood up. I placed the frog photo in my bag. Took one of his books. Smelled his cologne one last time.

Then I turned off the light and gently closed the door.

The room was still empty.

But I was not.