There’s a room in my house that nobody visits.
Not even me.
It’s just there—quiet, undecorated, almost anonymous. 

But sometimes, passing by, I glance inside and see a chair perfectly 
at ease in its own company.

It sits the way some people do, after years of knowing themselves—arms loose, open, restful like turning away from noise. 

The ceiling fan hangs motionless.
Its blades stretched like quiet limbs, at peace in their respite.

‘We don’t need to spin to matter,’ it seems to whisper to the brass lamp below, who stands steady like a loyal soldier.

Its burgundy shade tilted at the precise angle of contemplation.
It’s not slouching, neither it is rigid.
But simply angled to cradle the soft spill of light.

A desk leans into the corner, legs uneven but unconcerned.
The drawers still stick on the left side, as if taking a breath to remember how they moved once.

On its surface, a closed notebook, an uncapped pen, a paperweight shaped like a cloud and a chipped mug with a faint ring of tea dried inside.
Beside it, a wooden ruler with faded numbers, a spool of thread, and a single key whose lock has long been forgotten.

The mirror, oval and old, tilts slightly upward, watching the light walk the ceiling through the day.
Letting light, not faces, be its memory.

A small shelf by the window sags gently in the middle, lined with three mismatched books, a tiny glass jar of marbles, and a clock that ticks only when it feels like it.

The linen curtains are faded and frayed.
They flutter with no urgency, dancing slowly, only when they want to.

On the floor, a woven basket rests in the corner, holding nothing but the smell of old wicker.

A calendar hangs on the wall, still open to last October.
No one flipped the page, and nothing fell apart, as though the months since never mattered.

And standing there, I realise, that not everything is waiting to be filled.
Some rooms already hold the light they were built for.

This room has made a home of its solitude. It gathers stillness like a well gathers rain. It holds it the way glass holds morning light.

It asks nothing of laughter or company, nor of the clatter that haste brings, yet it would welcome them like old friends.

Perhaps that is the art.
To be full in yourself, yet keep a chair pulled out for whoever wanders in.

- Neha Sharma