The Room Remembers

An old voice

leaks through the radio.

Crackled.

Tired.

Still alive.

I sit there,

listening—

like it knows me.

The room is small.

Too small for memory.

Two chairs.

One table.

Three beds.

All of them

staring at each other

like they’re waiting

for someone to speak first.

My mind slips—

not gently—

but the way a hand slips off a ledge.

Back into the past.

Back into places

that knew how to hurt me

by heart.

I start whispering

along with that old voice—

not singing,

just surviving the sound.

The chairs don’t interrupt.

They’ve heard worse.

The beds stay quiet,

doing what they do best—

holding weight

without asking questions.

And the room…

the room doesn’t judge.

It just remembers.

Every night.

Every silence.

Every version of me

that sat here

thinking it would forget.