The Room No One Enters

The taint of death lingered, even after every physical remnant had been cleaned away.

Floors could be scrubbed and disinfected, carpets replaced, tiles and boards scoured, bodies removed... but the feeling remained. An odd miasma of horror, shock and bone-deep grief, tinged with the knowledge that no human had set foot in the room in years.

Humans left a psychic imprint of their emotions in the places they frequented. Rooms where people spent a lot of time, with fond and happy memories, retained a feling of warmth and invitation, inviting newcomers to love them as much as the past resident had. Mortals chalked it up to the comfort of a well loved chair, or how the sun fell just right in a certain spot, and perhaps that was part of it.

But the greater reason was the love left behind.

By the same measure, other emotions also left their mark. A cafe where many artists had written and painted and laughed in the throes of creativity, or reading where ideas had been shared with friends and bonds were forged that lasted a lifetime... those places would be where future artists would find inspiration came a little easier, and energy lasted longer. Even when one outgrew the swings and climbing frames, parks and playgrounds would still bring a nostalgic smile, and a discreet hop on anything that looked sturdy enough.

Death left a mark, too, and so did a room avoided.

The last death in this room had been almost 20 years ago, but grief had led the remaining family to avoid it, and entered only to place a box of things that were beyond use, intended to be forgotten, or retrieved rarely.

The good memories attached to the things stored in the room prevented darkness from taking hold entirely, but there was still a forlorn feeling, a loneliness and grief, that lingered. Toys that missed being played with, photos that yearned to be looked at, invoking memories from decades past.

A room frozen in time, waiting for someone to remember it.

Then, one December morning, the door opened. Footsteps entered. Small and young, they had not lived enough years to bear the weight of regret and things forgotten.

Another hesitated in the doorway, before setting a deliberate foot over the threshold. Then another, and another, until they stood under a shaft of sunlight, surrounded by dust motes.

It seemed as though the entire room held their breath, even within the closed boxes. "Are you all right?"

A long exhale. "Yes, sweetling. Just a lot of memories."

The smaller feet explored, looking at boxes and darting away, seeking something. "What kind of memories?"

A heavy silence. "Lots of different ones. Your aunt died in this room. Not Auntie N, her sister. You never knew her."

"The second Auntie S that is in so many of Auntie N's photos?"

"Yes, that's her. Auntie N still won't set foot here, it reminds her of too much."

"Would it help if we came with her?"

A mutter intended to go unheard "Doubtful, with the 'work emergencies' that only crop up when we ask her", then, louder, "I don't think so, honeybunch."

"Oh, I found the photo albums! Look!"

There was a burst of grief, but the healing kind, where hurt is tempered by good memories. "Which one do you want to look through first? You can pick."

The room grew fractionally warmer. "I like this one's cover. Who is that?"

A soft laugh. "That's your grandparents."

"But they have hair! And it's brown!"

"Don't let Nana hear you say that, she spends a fortune at the hairdresser to keep colour in her hair these days. They were a lot younger then, when your Auntie and Mummy were the age you are now?"

"Is that why Auntie N dyes her hair now?"

"Don't let her hear you say that, either. The other adults in the photo are your great-grandparents. You didn't get to meet them, either, but they would have loved you."

Memories sprang to life with each photo and story shared. Remembering the feeling of a happy childhood surrounded by love, and the people who had shared it. Some were gone, while others remained, but the relationships were changed.

No one could return to the past, but they could carry it with them into the present and future.

And whenever they wanted to revisit the past, the room, no longer forgotten, would be there to transport them.

This story was partially inspired by my niece asking me to look through old photo albums with her, and partly by thinking about why a single room might be forgotten or avoided.

When my twin died, 20 years ago next month, it took years before I could go into her room again, or the room she died in.

It got easier when her room was no longer "Sally's old room", but the room where my niece and nephew slept when they visited, some 15 years after the fact.