THE ROOM IN THE FOREST

She dreamed of a room in the woods. Or maybe she remembered it.

I once found a room in the forest.

Or maybe it found me.

It was open to the sky but closed in everywhere else, trees pressing close, moonlight slicing through leaves.
There was no door.
No walls.
Just space shaped like a memory.

The floor was made of pine and something older.
It creaked when I stepped across it.
Not like a sound. Like a warning.

Like it knew me.

There was a chair in the corner, but no one had ever sat in it.
The cushion hadn’t been crushed. The dust hadn’t been moved.
Still, it felt familiar.
Like it had been waiting.

I touched the windowsill, though there was no window.

I leaned against the wall, though there was no house.

I stayed.

That night, the wind did not whisper. It stared.

In the morning, the room was gone.

But my feet still remembered where the floor had been.