There is a room that only I can visit.

I have only ever seen two walls: perhaps there are no others. I do not know whether there is a door, for I have never entered through one: perhaps there is no door. Perhaps this room is like a stage, and I the audience.

The room is simply furnished. There is a wingback chair on which I have never sat. The chair and I face each other. To the left of the chair, there is an end table, simple in design, on which I have never set anything. On the table, there is a kerosene table lamp with a glass chimney. The lamp is the sole source of light and is always lit.

When I first visited, I could see everything: the pattern of the chair fabric, the wood grain of the table, a bright circle of light on the ceiling. With each subsequent visit, I became aware that the lamp wick was lowering, the light diminishing. Over time, deep shadow claimed the walls, the ceiling, the floor and the chair in turn. Eventually, even the table was lost and only the tiniest flicker of light remained.