Museum of Becoming
Enter through a west wing, where dust
settles like it's been waiting for you specifically.
The portraits don't blink. The rope barriers
are suggestions you no longer need.
Open the first door.
A girl sits by a window, laughing at something
you don't remember being funny.
The plaque reads: Age nine. Still fearless.
Open the second. She's older here,
tired in a way that photographs don't usually catch
the tiredness behind the eyes, not on the face.
she doesn't look up when you enter.
The third room holds someone happier than you've ever been.
You don't recognize the joke she's laughing at.
You don't recognize the room she's standing in.
You wonder, briefly, if she recognizes you.
The fourth door won't open at first.
When it does, no one is inside
just chair angled toward the window,
still warm, like someone just left.
You keep walking. The room grow quieter.
Somewhere behind you, a woman
who doesn't recognize your face
is signing a guestbook with your name.
The last room is empty.
Not abandoned — unfinished.
No plaque. No visitor rope.
Just white walls, waiting for a version of you
that hasn't arrived yet.
You stand in the doorway a long time.
Then you understand:
this room isn't empty because nothing happened here.
It's empty because you're still becoming
whoever gets to stand inside it.
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