Inside the Room

Day 3

This morning, something changed. When I woke up, there was food in front of the door. A simple tray with a piece of bread, some water, and an apple. I don’t know how it got there—no sound, no indication that anyone had been here. The door remained closed, solid as ever.

I ate slowly, savoring every bite. The bread was stale, the water lukewarm, but it was something. The apple was small and bruised, but the sweetness felt like a revelation, a taste of something real in this sterile, oppressive place. I wondered who put it there, who decided I needed sustenance, and when they might come again.

The crack in the wall still lets in its sliver of light, marking the passage of another day. It’s a small comfort, watching the light shift, knowing that time is moving, even if it feels like I’m stuck in a perpetual now.

I tried writing again, filling pages with my thoughts. The act of writing is a small rebellion, a way to keep my mind from sinking into the silence that surrounds me. The hum persists, that faint, almost inaudible drone. It’s becoming a constant companion, something to latch onto in the absence of other sounds.

I keep staring at the door, wondering if it will open, if someone will come through. The tray of food is gone now, as if it never existed. I placed it back where I found it, hoping it would be taken away, and it was.

The bed is as uncomfortable as ever, but today it feels like a small relief. My body is sore, and the metal frame offers no respite, but it’s something to lean against, something solid in this void.

The uncertainty is still here, gnawing at me, but now there’s a hint of something else—a tiny flicker of hope, perhaps. The door remains closed, the walls as confining as ever, but the food was a sign that I haven’t been forgotten.

For now, I’ll keep writing, keep waiting, and watch the light fade as night falls once more.