The Shadow in Room 7

The Shadow in Room 7

A story about time, guilt, and the memories that never belonged to us.

The first thing I noticed when I woke up in Room 7 was that the light had no source.

It didn’t come from the ceiling, nor from the lamp by the bed. It simply existed — a soft, silver glow that made the shadows breathe.

For a long time, I thought I was alone there.

The machines around my bed whispered faint electronic sighs, their blinking lights like tiny constellations in a private sky.

But then I saw it — the shadow.

It didn’t belong to me.

It moved before I did.

Every time I tried to look straight at it, it seemed to freeze, as if pretending to be ordinary darkness.

But from the corner of my eye, it was alive. I could feel its attention — gentle, patient, almost compassionate.

As if it knew me better than I knew myself.

The doctors called it trauma, post-coma hallucinations.

They spoke softly, like priests in a hospital chapel.

But at night, when everyone else left and the machines whispered in unison, the shadow would approach.

It never spoke, never touched me. Yet its presence filled the room like the echo of a forgotten name.

One night, it moved closer to the monitor beside my bed.

Its shape shimmered, then reached into the screen — not physically, but like light folding into itself.

The heart rate monitor blinked and began showing not my pulse, but memories.

Scenes. Places. Moments that had not yet happened.

I saw a corridor of white doors, endless and clean.

I saw myself walking through them, one by one — older, thinner, but still me.

Each door opened into a fragment of my life that I didn’t recognize:

a child with my eyes laughing on a beach I’ve never been to,

a woman crying beside a bed, whispering “don’t follow me,”

a city in flames beneath a silent sky.

When I opened my eyes again, Room 7 was silent.

The shadow stood by the window, motionless, as if waiting for permission to leave.

And then it spoke — not aloud, but inside my head, in a voice that sounded like my own:

“You died here once.

We are what remains when memory forgets the body.”

My throat went dry.

The window reflected both of us — me in my bed, and the shadow behind me.

But in the reflection, our positions were reversed.

It was the one lying down.

I was standing beside it.

When the nurse entered, the room looked ordinary again.

But my chart was gone.

And on the screen of the heart monitor, instead of numbers, a single word pulsed faintly —

REMEMBER.

That was two weeks ago.

They moved me to another room, another ward.

The doctors say I’m recovering well.

But sometimes, at 3:17 a.m., I wake up and the light feels wrong — too silver, too soft, too familiar.

And I know that somewhere, in a hospital room that no longer exists,

a shadow is waking up in my place.

🕯️ Written by Alex Mario

Category: Psychological Sci-Fi / Mystery