The Orange Room
The Orange RoomIt was that time of evening on Sugar Island when the orange creeps into rooms, lending them a feeling of warmth and safety. Thirty-nine year old Victoria watched as rays of the setting sun filtered through her white curtains and spilled over her handmade rug. In the twilight, it didn’t look old and tattered. She pulled it to one side and straightened it, then claimed the rocker built by an uncle who had died long before she was born. As she rocked, the day faded, but not before filling every inch of the room with a soft orange glow. She hugged herself with her strong, thin arms. It’s not so bad being alone, she thought. Not when I have this orange room on a lovely quiet summer evening. It’s not so bad.
And it wasn’t, not really. Victoria had the silent room
