**The Third Room – Not for Guests**
“Don’t you dare go in there!” snapped Margaret Williams, rushing from the kitchen with wet hands. “How many times must I tell you?”
Ten-year-old Oliver froze by the half-open door and turned to his grandmother. Confusion and hurt filled his eyes.
“Gran, what’s in there? I just wanted to look—”
“Nothing! Just dust!” Margaret strode over, slammed the door shut, and turned the key. “Go watch cartoons or play with your Lego.”
Oliver shrugged and shuffled to the living room, but Margaret noticed his backward glances at the forbidden door. She sighed, tucking the key into her apron pocket. Again, this same talk. Every time Oliver visited for the holidays, it started anew.
“Mum, why frighten him?” Emily stepped out of the bathroom, drying her hair with a towel. “He’s just curious.”
“And you’re not?” Margaret shot back.
Emily stopped, the towel stilling in her hands.
“I… I’m fine as things are, Mum. Why dredge up the past?”
“Exactly. And Oliver doesn’t need to, either. He should be outside playing, not snooping around.”
Emily opened her mouth but stayed silent. She knew that tone—arguing was pointless. Better to distract Oliver instead.
Margaret returned to the kitchen, switching on the kettle. Her hands trembled as she fetched the mugs. Twenty years had passed, yet even thinking about that room made her chest tighten. About what remained inside.
After lunch, Oliver sprawled on the sofa with his tablet while Emily read in the armchair. Margaret washed up, eyeing her grandson. He was clever—too clever.
“Gran,” Oliver asked suddenly, eyes still on the screen, “why d’you have a three-bed flat but only use two?”
Margaret fumbled a plate into the sink.
“How d’you know it’s three-bed?” she asked carefully.
“I’m not blind! I can count—your room, the lounge where I sleep, and that door. Always locked.”
Emily looked up from her book. Margaret stood with her back to them, shoulders rigid.
“It’s… just old things. Nothing interesting.”
“Can I see? I’ll be careful, promise.”
“No!” Margaret snapped, whirling around. “And don’t ask again!”
Oliver flinched. Even Emily raised her brows.
“Mum, what’s wrong? You never shout at Oliver.”
Margaret leaned against the sink, rubbing her face.
“Sorry, love. Just… tired today. Don’t be cross with your gran.”
Oliver nodded, but the confusion lingered. Too clever by half.
That evening, after Oliver slept, Emily joined her mother at the kitchen table.
“Mum, maybe it’s time?”
“Time for what?”
“To clear that room. Twenty years, Dad’s gone, and you still—”
“Don’t!” Margaret stood so fast her chair toppled. “Don’t you dare!”
“Mum, please. This isn’t healthy. You’re hurting yourself.”
Margaret righted the chair, hands shaking.
“I’m fine. It’s… easier this way. Knowing nothing’s been touched.”
“But Oliver needs a proper room when he visits. How long will he sleep on the sofa?”
“There’s time. He’s still little.”
Emily sighed. She remembered that room—how it looked two decades ago. The desk by the window, the narrow bed, the shelves of books. Every trace of a life cut short.
“Remember how he’d scold you?” Emily murmured. “When you tidied his room? Said he had his own system, that no one should touch his things.”
Margaret smiled through tears.
“I remember. So stubborn. Always did everything himself—even carried his dishes out. Said a man should clean up after himself.”
“He was only seventeen, Mum.”
“Only seventeen… But so grown-up in his head. Knew everything, debated politics with your dad for hours…”
Emily nodded. She remembered her little brother—his laugh, his stubbornness, his dreams. How he’d planned for uni, for a future he’d never see.
“Sometimes I dream he’s just away,” Margaret whispered. “That tomorrow he’ll come home, unlock his door, and say, ‘Mum, why’d you lock it? I forgot my key.’”
“Mum…”
“I know. It’s daft. But it helps—thinking he’s just on a long trip. That when he’s back, everything will be like before.”
Emily squeezed her hand.
“He won’t come back. And the room won’t change that.”
“What will?” Margaret’s voice cracked. “How do I forget him in that hospital bed? The doctors shaking their heads? Me begging God, promising anything—”
Emily stayed silent. What could she say? A stupid accident—James crossing the road, a driver not seeing him in the dark. Three days in hospital, never waking up.
“Remember,” Margaret said suddenly, “how he taught me to crimp pasties? Said I did it wrong, that they’d burst. Stood there so serious, flour up to his elbows.”
“I remember. And how he always left his light on. You’d scold him, and he’d say he’d be back.”
“Yes… And I believed him. Thought we had all the time in the world. That he’d grow up, marry, bring grandchildren…”
They sat in silent grief, the kitchen lamp casting long shadows.
“Oliver’s so like him,” Emily said finally.
“He is. Just as stubborn, just as curious. Same clever eyes.”
“Is that why it hurts to look at him sometimes?”
Margaret hesitated.
“Not hurt. Just… strange. Like time’s turned back. Like James is here again, ten years old, asking a million questions.”
“Have you thought Oliver deserves to remember him? He doesn’t even know he had an uncle.”
“Why should he? Let him live without that pain.”
“Mum, memory isn’t just pain. It’s love, too. James was good—kind, funny. Oliver should know him.”
Margaret stood, gazing out at the streetlamps. A dog barked in the distance.
“I’m scared, Em. If I open that room, it’s… over. Like I’ll lose him for good.”
“Didn’t you lose him twenty years ago?” Emily said softly.
Margaret turned.
“You think I’ve lived wrong?”
“I think you’ve lived how you could. But maybe it’s time to try another way.”
That night, Margaret lay awake, listening to Oliver’s sleepy snuffles—just like James’s.
At dawn, she rose, padding to the hall. She grabbed the key from her dressing gown, hand shaking as it turned in the lock.
The door creaked open. Dust and old paper filled the air. Everything remained—the desk strewn with textbooks, band posters on the walls, the narrow bed with its dented pillow.
Margaret traced the book spines—*Physics, Maths, History*—each a relic of a boy who’d studied late, dreaming of uni.
On the nightstand stood a photo: James at prom, grinning, arms slung over mates. She clutched the frame, sinking onto the bed.
“Sorry, love,” she whispered. “Sorry I kept you locked in here. You’d hate that, wouldn’t you?”
She sat awhile, then left, locking the door—but this time, she placed the key on the hall shelf, beside a family photo: her, Ted, Emily, James. Their last together.
At breakfast, Oliver prodded again:
“Gran, what’s really in that room?”
Emily tensed, but Margaret set down her spoon.
“That was your uncle’s room. James.”
Oliver’s eyes widened.
“I’ve got an uncle? Where is he?”
Margaret looked at him, then Emily.
“He’s gone, love. Died very young.”
“Was he nice?”
“So nice. Clever, kind, funny. A lot like you.”
Oliver chewed his lip.
“Can I see his room?”
Margaret fetched the key.
“Yes. But gently, alright? It’s just as he left it.”
Oliver took it solemnly. Emily watched, silent.
Sunlight streamed in as Margaret drew the curtains, dust motes dancing.
“This was his desk. Here’s where he slept. These were his favourite books.”
Oliver wandered, examining posters, textbooks.
“Gran, was he top of his class?”
“No, but he worked hard. Wanted to be an engineer.”
“How’d he die?”
Margaret pulled him close.
“A car accident. But I think he’d love knowing you. You’d have been pals.”
Oliver hugged her.
“Can I come here sometimes? Read his books?”
“Whenever you like,” she whispered.
The door stayed unlocked.
That night, she told Oliver about James—how he’d loved ice cream, feared spiders, begged for a bike. HowShe watched as Oliver traced his uncle’s name in an old notebook, the past and present finally at peace, the room no longer a shrine to grief but a bridge between generations.
