The Empty Room

The studio room had been empty for years. No one ever entered. No one knew why. As empty as shadows and blank canvasses. All that remained there were shafts of light, Where specks of dust danced in that golden hue, That disappeared every sunset and returned at dawn. Maybe someone had memories of the room. Maybe they were all long forgotten. There was eeriness, as if inaudible whispers remained, Bouncing echoes off the walls. A chill was imagined even on sunny days. Nothing remained, not even prospects. No hope lingered, no anticipation of a new coat of paint. Did spirits take refuge, because of a diabolical incident ? Be they captives, waiting for redemption to be released? Emptiness, at least that gave the room a name. It was, is and always will be, The empty room.