Episode 3: The Room We Never Talk About
By Elena Falk
There's a room in this house we both pretend doesn't exist.
It's the one at the end of the hallway—door always shut, lights always off. My father's office.
He died in that room.
And we never really talked about it. Not when it happened. Not when the police left. Not when the funeral ended and people stopped bringing casseroles.
Clara and I each carried our grief in different ways. I became ice. She became air. I froze everything around me to survive. She drifted away.
That afternoon, two days after she returned, Clara stood in front of the door again.
"I want to go in," she said.
I stood behind her, my arms crossed. "Why now?"
"Because I need to remember… or maybe I need to finally face it."
I didn't say anything.
She turned the knob.
Dust floated like snowflakes in the still air. The desk was untouched. The books still lined the wall. His coat hung on the back of the chair as if he'd step into it any minute.
She stepped inside slowly, like walking into a church.
"I thought I forgot what this smelled like," she whispered. "Old paper and cologne."
I stayed at the door.
Clara picked up a photo from the desk—us, when we were little. I was ten, she was six. Our father stood behind us with his hands on our shoulders. We were smiling, but not looking at the same camera. I remember hating how tight his grip was.
"Did he ever…?" she started, then stopped.
I looked at her. "Yes."
Her eyes flickered with pain, not shock.
"Why didn't we ever talk about it?" she asked.
"Because it was easier to pretend we were a perfect family. Because if we said it out loud, it became real."
She sat down on the edge of the desk. "I always felt like something was wrong, but I thought I was imagining it."
"You weren't."
Silence filled the room. Heavy, but honest.
"He hurt you more than me," she said, not as a question. "You were older. You tried to protect me."
I nodded.
"I was selfish," she continued. "I left you alone with that weight."
"You were a kid, Clara. We both were."
"But you stayed. And you carried everything."
I stepped further into the room. My hands trembled slightly, but I didn't hide it.
"He died in this room," I said softly. "But not before leaving a scar that doesn't fade."
She looked at me, her eyes full of guilt and something else—understanding.
"I hated him," I said.
"So did I," she replied. "But I hated myself more… for running."
For a long moment, we just sat there, breathing the same stale air, surrounded by memories we had buried too deep.
Then Clara got up and walked to the window. She opened it wide. The breeze swept in, fresh and cold, carrying away some of the dust—and maybe some of the ghosts too.
"Let's make this room something else," she said. "A music room. Or a reading nook. Or just… not a tomb."
I looked around.
Maybe she was right.
Maybe it was time.