The room was still, unmoving, cursed to a lifetime of silence.
Pale light slipped through half-open curtains, painting a dull gold tide on the walls. A mirror, dust-veiled, forgot who it once reflected.
And then, within that silence, something stirred — a murmur, faint at first. The furniture began to wake.

They buzzed — not from excitement, but from worry. Their owner had long disappeared.
It had been weeks since they had felt sunlight or breathed fresh air — weeks of darkness and doom.
Silence had never screamed this loud.

And so, like in a Beauty and the Beast kind of day, the furniture began to speak to one another.
The clothes, always talkative but long forgotten on the chair, reported their missing sisters: a pair of pajamas. The owner’s favorite sweatshirts complained that they hadn’t been worn in ages and missed the warmth of human skin.

The books agreed — they too longed to be opened, to feel their pages turn. Now they were covered in dust, their stories neglected. The owner used to visit them often, to touch them, to hold them — they had been her best friends. And yet, now, no hands reached for them. It had been weeks.

The makeup, dramatic and sprawled across the desk, was also covered in dust and neglect. Once their colors caught the morning light; now they dulled beside the mirror. Their purpose — to brighten her — sealed in silent tubes. Of course, the girl was beautiful without them, but she never went a day without adding a touch of red or pink to her face. It had been so long since they’d felt her cheeks or eyelids. Days? Weeks? They could no longer tell.

The guitar, the soulful and poetic one, stood silent in the corner, forgotten beneath its thin veil of dust. She used to sing now and then — sometimes beautiful, sometimes messy notes — but always alive. Now, she had forgotten what it felt like to have her strings plucked, to produce chords, to speak in her musical language.
Her companion — the girl who knew her by heart — had once treated her like a soulmate. The guitar longed for her return, for who else could speak her language if not her?

But as they spoke, the bed finally broke its silence.
He had known all along — the owner was still here. She had been lying on him this whole time. He felt the weight of her body, the stillness that stretched from dusk till dawn. She barely moved, only rising for a few minutes — perhaps to use the bathroom or eat. But the bed knew something was wrong. She felt lighter with each passing day, as if her life were slipping away piece by piece. She smelled different too — strange for someone who used to bathe even before sleeping. Sometimes, she trembled so hard that the bed shook like in an earthquake. Other times, he felt the wetness from her tears soaking into his companions: pillows. Her hands gripped them so tightly they thought they might choke. It was as if she were holding onto life itself.
And always, she whispered a familiar name — one she left at the angel’s embrace, one the stars alone remembered.

The books knew it then, like doctors do.
Written in chapters and twists, they called it heartbreak. There was no doubt — it could happen to their owner, the girl who lived through pages and breathed imagination. They murmured among themselves, softhearted fools all.
They didn’t know when she’d recover, only that she would. One day, like the heroines she once underlined and adored, she’d rise.
No white horse. No savior. Just her.

And with that hope, the furniture sighed with relief. Silence returned, softer, no longer screaming. And thus, they slowly drifted back to their usual sleep, waiting for their owner to outlive her grief.

Written By: Emna Harzallah