His room.

A soft yellow glow radiating from a single light on a broken shelf filled the room, the shelf perfectly complementing the rest of the run down furniture scattered about. Every piece in the room seemed to have been randomly dropped, left to rest on whatever location it landed. Nothing stood out, nothing separated itself from the blandness that encompassed the room.

The drapes seemed to fuse with the walls, both a dreary color that closely resembled the muck at the bottom of a stagnant pond. The floor creaked with every step in the spots that still had wood, the rest was gone, eaten by rats and termites over many years of negligence.

This room was a shrine, a temple, a glorified meditation chamber where James found time to think. Never had James encountered a problem so great he’d find it unsolvable after spending time in the room. This room was everything to James. The room he was born in, the room he grew up in, the room he retreated to when life became to challenging, and the room in which he had died.

View this story's 1 comments.