A Room That Listens — Lila
636 Words
The door closes behind him without a sound.
No lock. No final click. Just the soft certainty that it isn't opening for me again anytime soon.
I stay where I am, staring at it.
He hadn't said much. Just enough to make the situation clear and nothing more. Protection clause. Temporary. I'll look for it.
That was it.
No questions about my brother. No concern in his voice that I could recognize. Like he'd already decided what mattered — and it hadn't been my comfort.
I turn away before the thought can spiral.
The room feels larger when I really look at it. Dark wood walls reinforced with iron, seams pressed together like the place was built to hold pressure. Symbols are worked into the grain — not carved, not painted. Imprinted.
They hum faintly, or maybe that's just my nerves.
I sit on the edge of the bed and rub my hands together.
My brother is going to notice I'm gone.
The realization lands heavy in my chest.
He's not careless. He checks in. If I don't answer, he'll call. If I don't call back, he'll drive. He won't wait for explanations. He'll assume the worst because that's what you do when something already feels off.
And lately... things have felt off.
The bike was part of that, even if I hadn't been able to explain why. Just a sense of unease the last time I'd been near it.
Like standing to close to something that could tip without warning.
I swallow and force myself to breathe.
If he comes looking for me —
If he walks into this place —
My gaze drifts to the walls.
I don't think the protection clause that man mentioned extends to my brother.
I stand and cross the room, testing the space. One step, then another.
The air feels thick but permissive, like it's watching rather than stopping me.
I reach for the door handle.
The pressure hits immediately.
Not pain. Not shock. Just a solid, immovable resistance that presses back against my hand like a decision already made.
I yank my fingers away, heart pounding.
"Okay," I whisper. "I get it."
I try again, slower this time. I don't think about leaving — I think about warning my brother. About stepping just far enough into the hall to ask for a phone, to send a message, to leave some kind of sign.
The pressure eases a fraction.
Hope sparks — and dies just as fast.
The barrier holds.
So it's not escape that's forbidden.
It's intervention.
Before I can push further, voices drift through the walls.
"... she's still here?"
A woman's voice. Cool. Controlled. Sharp around the edges.
"Yes," someone replies.
"That's bold."
"She's under Munro's protection."
There's a pause. Then a quiet, humorless laugh.
"Since when does he protect civilians?"
Footsteps approach. I can't see her, but I can feel her attention like a weight pressing against the door.
The air tightens in response — not hostile, but alert.
Like a guard dog lifting its head.
Her voice drops, closer now, intimate in a way that makes my skin crawl.
"You better not be a distraction," she says. "Munro doesn't like complications."
A knock follows — not against the door itself, but against the space around it. Testing. Challenging.
The wards answers silently.
No.
Her footsteps retreat, slow and unhurried.
The room exhales.
I sit back on the bed, hands clenched in my lap.
My brother is out there. And if he comes looking for me, he won't be cautious.
He won't understand what he's walking into.
The man — Munro, I guess, catching his name from their conversation — said he'd look for the bike.
He didn't say anything about keeping my brother safe.
And that scares me more than anyhing in this room.
- Writer
