The room was not empty. It breathed like a restless animal. I had come seeking silence, yet it seemed to watch me, waiting for me to reveal something I could not yet name.
The air smelled of paper and rain, faintly sweet with dust. Somewhere beyond, I heard a cough—or was it laughter? Memory is treacherous: it arrives smiling and leaves you hollow. That night, it brought back a street I had almost forgotten, children chasing a deflated ball, the smell of bread from the bakery at dawn.
On the desk lay the letter, folded unevenly, edges curling with age. By the third day, it felt heavier, though I had read it only once. Words multiplied in my mind: doors that led nowhere, birds that sang without wings, a clock that ticked backwards. Perhaps they were warnings. Perhaps they were invitations. Still, when I traced the paper with my fingers, it trembled under my touch, as though alive.
He said nothing. His silence was louder than words. Her smile bent at the edges, as if hiding secrets. I unfolded the letter again, though I knew it contained nothing new. The handwriting was familiar, yet impossible, as if someone had written both my past and my future.
And then the silence shifted. It no longer weighed me down—it carried me, letter in hand, feather by feather, into an impossible sky. Whether it was dream or memory, I could not tell. All I knew was that some messages, once received, cannot be unread, and some doors, once opened, refuse to close.
@Yolanda Muriel 
yolandamuriel.com 