Empty Room

I asked about the empty room and he said he had none. I led him to the empty room and he said it wasn’t empty. Obstinately refused, when I pointed out the settled dust, the musty smell, the peeling paint, the scratches on the hardwood floor, from the furniture pulled out. I walked to every corner and covered every inch of the room, insisting it was uninhabited. But he looked at me as if I was the strange one. He shook his head and bade me follow. He led me to the window, pointing to the fingerprints on the windowpanes. He knelt on the floor to drag his finger through the dust; dead skin cells. He picked up a stray hair, a broken nail. He peeled away a layer of the pale blue paint, and beneath it were her words, scrawled. He said she was still there, and the room wasn’t empty.