Telling her Story

She emerged out of the possibilities of an unfolding story. At first, there was just the room, bare, empty: a room without design or purpose, barely four walls and a window. Of course, there had to be a door too, even a mystery – should it turn out to be one - needed a door, locked or otherwise.

As the room grew out of the shadows, I saw it had plain slightly off-white walls, bare as though either a freshly-painted room or one newly-built. Although, the room didn’t feel new, either, it felt old; a room that had felt history and could be the home to ghosts… not the spectral hauntings in particular, but that weight of history and past lives that every room over a certain age has. A feeling of lives lived within it, of having a past that it is almost possible to reach out and touch.

Anyway, there she was, standing in front of the window, looking out onto an overgrown garden. She had her back to me, her long straight black hair, reflecting some of the spring sunlight from a sun high in the sky as she stood there, looking out.

At first, I wondered if she was one of those ghosts of the room. I wondered if she would continue to stand there staring out of the window until the room faded from the story, or if she would turn and face me and begin to tell me this new story herself.