I am not alone.
Not really.
At least, that's what my mind tells me.
They come and go like shadows slipping across the walls—five figures, each as silent and still as the room itself.
There's the man with the threadbare coat, who sits hunched in the far corner. His coat is faded, edges frayed like the memories he carries. He never speaks. His eyes stare at some distant point I cannot see. Sometimes I think he's been here longer than me, carrying all the waiting that ever was, all the lost time that refuses to move on.
There's the woman with the silver hair, who always clutches a worn leather book. The book's spine is cracked, pages yellowed like the autumn leaves outside some long-forgotten window. She turns the pages slowly, with a kind of reverence, though I never see her read the words. Sometimes, just for a heartbeat, her eyes lift and meet mine—sharp, searching, as if trying to find something in me she cannot name. Then her gaze drifts away, lost again.
The third is a boy, barely more than a shadow himself. He sits near the windowless wall, fingers tapping against his knee in a restless rhythm, like a storm trapped beneath still waters. His presence unsettles me somehow—as if beneath his calm surface, something wild churns, waiting to break free.
Then there's the woman in green. She drifts through the room with a lightness that makes the stale air feel warmer for a moment. When she laughs, it's soft and distant, like the echo of a lullaby sung long ago. Her smile flickers like a candle flame, bright against the pale walls, but then the warmth drains away, and she vanishes like smoke through cracks in the silence.
The last is a man who always stands by the door. His posture is still, almost statuesque, eyes closed as if listening to a sound no one else can hear. Sometimes I feel him watching—not just the room, but me. Waiting for something I do not understand, something just out of reach.
I wonder if they see me. If they know I'm here, or if I'm just another shadow among them, part of the waiting.
They do not speak. Not aloud.
But sometimes, in the quietest moments, I catch fragments of their thoughts, like whispers carried on the stale air—echoes of memories, fears, and hopes tangled together, half-formed and fading fast.
I want to reach out to them. To ask who they are, what they remember, if they too have forgotten their names. But the words never come.
Until today.
I sit and watch them, as always. The man with the coat has his eyes closed now, as if resting, but the boy's fingers never stop tapping. The woman in green moves past me, the soft rustle of her dress barely audible. The silver-haired woman still turns her pages, slow and careful.
The man by the door opens his eyes suddenly. He looks at me—not with curiosity, but with something deeper, something I can almost grasp but not quite.
"I've been waiting too," he says, voice low and steady, breaking the silence like a stone thrown into still water.
The sound of his voice sends a ripple through the room. I startle, heart quickening. The others remain still, unmoving, as if they did not hear.
"Waiting," he repeats softly, "for the moment when the clock will finally tick again."
His words hang in the air between us, fragile and real.
I want to ask what that means. What moment? What clock? But my tongue feels thick, heavy with silence.
He steps closer, the faintest scent of earth and rain drifting with him. "We're all here," he says, "because something was lost. Something we can't quite hold onto."
I nod slowly, not trusting my voice yet.
He looks away, toward the wall where the clock hangs above the doors, hands frozen in time. "Maybe waiting isn't punishment," he says, "but a kind of grace. A space where the broken pieces can settle."
I swallow hard, feeling the weight of his words settle into the hollows inside me.
The woman in green chuckles softly, a sound like wind chimes. "Grace," she says, almost teasing. "Or a cage."
I glance around. The others remain quiet, eyes distant, lost in their own waiting.
The man with the coat opens his eyes briefly, and for a moment, I see a flicker of sadness in them.
The boy taps faster now, restless as ever, his gaze flickering to the door as if expecting something—or someone—to arrive.
I want to ask the man by the door if he remembers his name. If he remembers anything at all beyond this room. But before I can, he steps back, closing his eyes once more.
The moment breaks.
The room exhales its silence again, heavier this time.
I am alone once more.
But something lingers in the air—a fragile thread connecting us all, unseen but unbroken.
I lean back in my chair, the worn fabric sighing beneath me.
The waiting continues.
And somehow, so does hope.