The Blankroom

Outside the glass, the carnival rages. In here there is only white, and a globe on a plain table. Shake it if you like — a memory will flicker for a breath, then settle back into the snow. The Blankroom gives you the flicker, not the keepsake. That is its kindness.

• Snow settling on a mitten, each flake a small arrival.
• A hallway where you once felt brave. It is still standing.
• Your own laugh, younger, from a room you can’t quite place.
• The hush after the door closed and you were finally alone and safe — both at once.
• A hand on your shoulder that meant stay, not stop.
• White curtains breathing in a window. Somewhere, that afternoon is still going.
• The word you almost said. It’s kept warm here.
• Footprints in fresh snow, already softening. You were here. That’s enough.
• A ceiling you memorized while you were healing. It held.
• The quiet inside a snowfall — the world lowering its voice for you.
• A small self, sitting cross-legged in the white, not waiting for anything.
• The breath you took right before you told the truth.
• Light through a frosted window — no shapes, no demands. Just light.
• Not a picture this time. Just the feeling of being held without being asked to explain.