Chapter Five: The Room That Does Not Lie
"When someone enters your room,
they do not visit the place…
they visit you." — Edgar Wilmore
Edgar had not expected the visit,
but he felt it.
That old feeling that precedes great things:
a weight in the chest,
a faint voice in the head,
and the sense that the night is longer than it should be.
He was sitting at his desk when he heard the sound.
Not a knock.
But a subtle movement…
as if someone were breathing in the wrong place.
He lifted his head slowly.
Looked at the door.
It remained closed.
He smiled.
Eliza was standing in the narrow hallway behind the door,
the key trembling in her hand,
her heart beating like a war drum.
She was not afraid…
but aware.
Aware that if she entered, she would not leave as she came.
And that the truth, if it existed behind this door,
would show no mercy.
She turned the key.
The sound was louder than she expected.
She entered.
The smell of the room struck her first:
old paper, ink, and something else…
something metallic, faint, unseen, but felt.
Edgar sat with his back to her,
holding his pen as if waiting.
He spoke quietly, without turning:
"You are late."
Her steps halted.
"I knew you would come," he continued,
"journalists do not sleep when they are close to the truth."
She spoke, trying to keep her voice steady:
"You left me no choice."
He finally turned.
Their eyes met.
And for the first time,
he did not look at her as an idea…
but as a human being.
"Did you come to accuse me?" he asked.
"Or to understand me?"
She stepped forward.
Then another step.
"I came to hear you say it yourself."
He laughed softly, a joyless laugh.
"Human history is full of people who spoke the truth… and no one believed them."
She gestured to the papers on the table.
"These are not novels, Edgar.
These are timings.
Details.
Mistakes made only by someone who was there."
He approached her,
not quickly,
but deliberately…
as someone who fears nothing.
"And do you know the difference between a writer and a killer?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"The writer is accused of lying.
The killer…
is granted silence."
Silence fell.
It was heavy, alive.
Then she asked,
"Why the roses?"
He paused.
It was the first time he truly fell silent.
He turned his back,
walked to the window,
and looked at London submerged in fog.
"Because no one placed a rose for me when I first died."
She turned toward him.
"When did you die?"
He answered without hesitation:
"When I realized that mercy is a social lie,
and that some people cannot be redeemed by regret."
Then he added in a softer voice:
"When my mother screamed…
and no one saved her."
A shiver ran through Eliza.
He was not boasting.
He was not threatening.
He was explaining.
She spoke cautiously:
"You do not fix anything, Edgar.
You repeat the wound."
He stepped closer until there was only one step between them.
"And you?" he whispered.
"Do you write to heal?
Or to watch?"
She did not answer.
For the question struck her.
He reached out slowly…
not toward her,
but toward her notebook.
He took it.
Flipped the pages.
Read.
Then he smiled.
"You see me more clearly than I see myself."
He raised his eyes to hers.
"And that…
is dangerous."
She stepped back.
"Will you kill me?" she asked.
He did not answer immediately.
Then he said:
"No."
She exhaled.
But he continued:
"Not yet."
He opened the door with his hand,
gesturing outside.
"Go, Miss Morgan.
Write what you will.
But remember…"
He leaned close and whispered by her ear:
"When the killer writes about you,
you are no longer a reader."
She left.
The door closed behind her with a deadly quiet.
Edgar returned to his desk.
He sat down.
And wrote a new line:
"Chapter Five was real.
And what comes next…
will not be published in newspapers."
He lifted his head.
He smiled.
"Now the story begins."