The Room with No Corners

The Room with No Corners

They told me the room had no corners.

At first, I thought it was metaphor. A psychological trick. Some cryptic philosophy dressed as punishment.

But when the steel door slammed shut behind me and the echo disappeared into silence, I saw it for myself.

There were no corners. No edges. No lines where walls met floor or ceiling. Just seamless white — a circle, maybe — with no beginning, no end, and no shadow.

In the center, one object: a chair. Cold metal, bolted to the floor. That, and me.

They said I could leave when I remembered what I’d done.

But I didn’t remember doing anything.

That was the part that scared me most.

The first day, I paced. Not in straight lines — you couldn’t in that room. Everything curved back in on itself. It messed with your sense of direction, of control. I talked to myself. Sang old songs. Counted breaths. Tried to pray, but I’d forgotten the words.

And always, beneath everything, was the hum.

A low, gentle vibration. Not from the walls — from somewhere beneath reality. It didn’t hurt. But it never stopped. Like the room was alive. Watching. Listening.

I don’t know when I began speaking without meaning to. Whispering things. Names I didn’t recognize. Events I never lived. Or thought I hadn’t.

Then one night — or what I called night — I muttered something that made me go still.

> “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

The words floated in the sterile air. Heavy. True.

But who was she?

The next day, the chair was gone. In its place: a mirror.

I hadn’t seen my reflection in so long, I wasn’t sure it was still mine.

I approached. Slowly.

And froze.

It was me. But older. Eyes sunken. Expression empty, or too full. A man hollowed out from the inside.

Behind my reflection, I saw a flicker. A shape in the wall — a line that hadn’t been there before.

A door.

Not open. Not even quite real.

Just… possible.

And the hum stopped.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Because in that stillness, memory came.

The road. The rain. The red light.

The girl.

She stepped out. I didn’t stop.

I kept driving. I looked back, and she was gone.

I told myself it was a shadow. A ghost. A bad dream.

But it wasn’t.

I left her there. Alone. Broken.

And when I woke the next day, I pretended it hadn’t happened.

The memory crashed into me like glass, and I dropped to my knees.

Not out of guilt.

Out of relief.

Because forgetting was worse.

Not knowing who I was — that was worse than knowing I was a coward.

When I stood up, the door was real.

Light poured through it. Not harsh. Not blinding. Just… real. With angles. With corners.

I could have walked through.

But I didn’t.

Because I understood now:

The room hadn’t trapped me.

It had kept the world safe from me.

And until I could face what I’d done — fully, honestly — I wasn’t ready to leave.

So I turned from the door. Sat where the chair once stood.

And whispered her name for the first time.

> “Lena.”

And the hum began again.

But this time, it wasn’t punishment.

So I turned from the door. Sat where the chair once stood. And whispered her name for the first time.

> “Lena.”

And the hum began again.

But this time, it wasn’t punishment.

It was memory.

And maybe… mercy.

Maybe this room, this strange prison, was never meant to break me — only reveal me. Strip away the lies I told the world, and the bigger ones I told myself.

If I ever leave this place, I won’t walk out innocent.

But I will walk out honest.

And sometimes, that’s the first step toward redemption.

It was memory.

And maybe… mercy.