Chapter 2 Segment 5 of The Sentient She Shed
The corridor opened into a round room.
Not large. Not grand. Just quiet.
The walls were lined with shelves, but not for books. For objects. Small ones. A button. A feather. A folded note. A pebble with a heart-shaped crack.
Each item sat in its own little alcove, glowing faintly.
Lila stepped closer.
The mouse followed, paws clasped behind its back like a librarian on patrol. The flash drive blinked once, then rolled to a pedestal in the center of the room.
On the pedestal sat a journal.
Its cover was soft, stitched with thread that shimmered like starlight. Lila opened it.
The pages were blank.
She picked up the pen beside it.
As she touched the tip to the page, words appeared—not hers, but the room’s.
“You are not forgotten.”
She blinked.
The words faded.
She wrote her name.
The ink shimmered, then settled.
The mouse squeaked once, then pointed to the wall.
A new alcove had appeared.
Inside it sat a sketch.
Her sketch.
The one she’d drawn in the book.
The room hadn’t just remembered her.
It had made space for her.
If a room made space just for you, what would it hold?
A sketch? A memory? A truth you’ve never spoken aloud?
Prompt for readers: you can leave your answers in the comment box below: