The Room That Wasn’t There Yesterday

The Room That Wasn’t There Yesterday

I noticed the room on the fourth night.

That alone should have been impossible.

The house was small—two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a narrow passage that ended at a blank wall. I had walked that passage countless times since moving in. I knew its length by memory, by habit, by the way my shoulder brushed the peeling paint if I turned too quickly.

But on the fourth night, the wall was gone.

In its place stood a door.

It was wooden, old, and slightly warped, as if it had absorbed years of silence. No handle. No lock. Just a thin shadow where it met the floor.

I stood there longer than I should have, waiting for logic to return.

It didn’t.

I checked the rest of the house. Everything else was the same. Only this extra space—this impossible room—had been added quietly.

The door was cold when I touched it.

Not cold like night air.
Cold like something that had never known warmth.

I didn’t open it.

The next morning, the door was gone.

The passage ended in a wall again—solid, cracked, familiar. I pressed my palm against it, half-expecting it to give way.

It didn’t.

I convinced myself it was stress. Old houses do strange things to the mind.

That explanation lasted until the next night.

At exactly 12:07 a.m., the door returned.

I was awake. Watching the digital clock glow red in the dark. There was no sound—no creak, no shift. I simply looked down the passage, and there it was.

Waiting.

The air around it felt thicker. Not heavy—expectant.

I stepped closer.

The door opened on its own.

The room beyond was larger than the house should allow.

That was the first thing I noticed.

The ceiling was high. The walls bare. A single bulb hung in the center, casting a weak yellow light. The room smelled faintly of dust and old paper.

It felt lived in.

There was a bed. A chair. A table.

And on the table—photographs.

I picked one up.

It was me.

Not a reflection. Not a trick. Me—sitting in a room I didn’t recognize, smiling at something outside the frame. I looked younger. Happier.

My hands began to shake.

More photographs followed. Different places. Different lives. Familiar handwriting. Unfamiliar memories.

Lives I had never lived.

The door closed behind me without sound.

I barely made it out before it vanished again—returning the passage to a wall that pretended nothing had happened.

I didn’t sleep that night.

From then on, the room appeared every night.

Always after midnight. Always silent.

And always fuller.

Clothes appeared in the chair—my size, my style, worn with time I didn’t remember spending. Books filled with notes written in my handwriting. A diary, already open.

If you’re reading this, it means you finally noticed the room.

The handwriting was mine.

This is where unchosen lives go.
This is where discarded thoughts wait.

I felt watched.

The bulb flickered.

And then I heard breathing.

The bed was no longer empty.

Someone lay there.

Someone who looked exactly like me—older, thinner, exhausted.

“Don’t be afraid,” it whispered. “I waited a long time.”

“What is this place?” I asked.

“A rest,” it said. “From regret.”

It explained slowly. Fragment by fragment.

Every unmade choice. Every path avoided. Every thought dismissed too quickly.

They all came here.

“This room exists for everyone,” it said. “Most people never see it.”

“Why do I?”

It smiled.

“Because your thoughts are already cracked.”

The room became comforting after that.

Warmer. Quieter.

The world outside felt loud, exhausting. Full of decisions.

The room asked for nothing.

On the fifteenth night, I stayed.

When the door opened again, it wasn’t for me.

A man stood in the passage, staring at a door that hadn’t been there yesterday.

He looked tired.

Curious.

Cracked.

I tried to warn him.

But the room doesn’t allow that.

It only waits.