**A Faded Room**
When Lucy opened the door to the hotel room, it felt like stepping into someone else’s memory.
The wallpaper was a yellowish tint—once cream, perhaps. The television was boxy and dusty, its remote wrapped in tape. On the bedside table sat a plastic cup-holder with a glass inside and a crumpled brochure of house rules, printed in a font long out of fashion. She ran her hand over the bedspread—stiff polyester, smelling of detergent and old furniture.
The room was cheap, and the photos online had made it seem fresher. But Lucy didn’t care. She wasn’t here for the place—just the pause. A silence between loud chapters. Somewhere she wouldn’t have to explain a thing.
She sank onto the edge of the bed. Outside, the high street hummed; cars inched along like snails. Through the wall, someone played the radio. A woman’s voice read the news, and for a moment, it almost felt like company—as if loneliness had learned to speak in echoes.
No new messages on her phone. The last was from James: *”I’m sorry, but you’re making this harder.”* She hadn’t replied. Didn’t delete it, either—not out of hope, just because the ache was proof she was still here. Like a splinter: if you feel it, you’re alive.
The bathroom tap dripped. She turned the faucet on, washed away the quiet, splashed her face. The mirror showed her familiar features—only her eyes seemed deeper, like they’d grown an extra floor.
That night, she dreamt of her father. Alive again, shaving in his dressing gown in their old kitchen, saying, *”Life’s like a radio. Just don’t lose the signal.”* She woke in the dark and sat hugging her knees. He’d been gone six years, but in this hotel—with its chipped doorknob and sheets the colour of dirty snow—he almost breathed beside her.
At breakfast, the dining room smelled of porridge, cheap coffee, and something else—nostalgia. A man in a blazer ate sausages and read a newspaper, *an actual newspaper*, glanced up, nodded. She nodded back. Small things—a look, steam from a mug—were like medicine.
Back in her room, snow began outside. Not thick, not festive—just ordinary, quiet, grey as background noise. Lucy stood at the window, watching. In this city, she had no errands, no appointments, no past. Just herself—here, now.
On the sill, she found a pen. Took a sheet from the hotel notepad. Wrote:
*”I don’t need forgiveness. I need room. To remember how to breathe.”*
Then added:
*”I didn’t run away. I just chose to stop.”*
Left it on the desk. Not a message—an anchor. For her.
At checkout, the receptionist asked, *”Everything alright?”*
Lucy smiled. *”Now it is.”*
Outside, snow caught on her shoulders, lashes, collar. Nothing had changed—yet everything was different. Because inside, it was quieter.
Because she’d taken the first step. Not away—toward herself.
