**The Third Room**
“Don’t you dare go in there!” Margaret Smith shouted, rushing from the kitchen with wet hands. “How many times must I tell you?”
Ten-year-old Charlie froze by the half-open door, turning to his grandmother with a mix of confusion and hurt in his eyes.
“Nan, what’s in there? I just wanted to look…”
“Nothing! Just dust!” Margaret strode over, firmly shut the door, and turned the key. “Go watch telly or play with your building blocks.”
Charlie shrugged and wandered off to the living room, but Margaret noticed him glancing back at the forbidden door. She sighed, tucking the key into her apron pocket. This conversation repeated every time he visited for the holidays.
“Mum, why do you scare him like that?” Emily stepped out of the bathroom, drying her hair with a towel. “He’s just curious—he’s a child.”
“And you’re not?” Margaret snapped.
Emily paused, the towel still in her hands.
“I… I don’t need to know, Mum. Why dredge up the past?”
“Exactly. Neither does Charlie. He should be playing outside, not snooping around.”
Emily bit her lip and stayed silent. She knew that tone—arguing was pointless. Better to distract Charlie instead.
Margaret returned to the kitchen, filling the kettle. Her hands trembled as she reached for the teacups. Twenty years had passed, yet her heart still clenched at the thought of that room—of what remained inside.
After lunch, Charlie sprawled on the sofa with his tablet while Emily read in the armchair. Margaret washed dishes, watching her grandson from the corner of her eye. He was sharp—too sharp.
“Nan,” Charlie asked suddenly, eyes still on the screen, “why d’you have a three-bed but only use two?”
The plate slipped from Margaret’s fingers, clattering in the sink.
“How d’you know it’s a three-bed?” she asked carefully.
“I can count doors! There’s yours, the lounge where I sleep, and that one—always locked.”
Emily looked up from her book. Margaret stood rigid, her back turned.
“It’s… just storage. Nothing interesting.”
“Can I see? I’ll be careful!”
“No!” Margaret whirled around. “And don’t ask again!”
Charlie flinched. Even Emily raised an eyebrow.
“Mum, you never shout at Charlie. What’s wrong?”
Margaret leaned against the sink, rubbing her face.
“Sorry, love. I’m just… tired. Don’t be cross with your nan.”
Charlie nodded, but the question lingered in his eyes.
That evening, after he’d gone to bed, Emily joined her mother at the kitchen table.
“Mum, maybe it’s time?”
“Time for what?”
“To clear that room. Twenty years is long enough. Dad’s gone, and you’re still—”
“Don’t!” Margaret stood so abruptly her chair toppled. “Don’t you dare!”
“Mum, calm down. It’s not healthy, keeping it like this.”
Margaret righted the chair, sinking back down. Her hands shook.
“I’m not keeping anything. It’s just… easier. Knowing it’s all untouched.”
“But Charlie needs his own room when he visits. How long will he sleep on the sofa?”
“He’s still young.”
Emily sighed. She remembered the room—the desk by the window, the narrow bed, the posters of bands Daniel had loved. A life cut short.
“Remember how he’d scold you?” Emily murmured. “When you tidied his room? Said it was *his* mess.”
Margaret smiled through tears.
“Stubborn, he was. Wanted to do everything himself. Even carried his own dishes out—said a man should clean up after himself.”
“He was only seventeen, Mum.”
“Seventeen…” Margaret whispered. “But so grown-up in his ways. Arguing politics with your dad for hours, quoting facts…”
Emily nodded. She remembered her little brother—his laugh, his dreams, the way he’d planned for university.
“Sometimes I dream he’s just away,” Margaret admitted. “That he’ll come home, open that 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… on a long trip. That everything’s waiting.”
Emily squeezed her hand.
“He won’t come back. The room won’t change that.”
“Then what will?” Margaret’s voice cracked. “How do I forget seeing him in hospital? The doctors shaking their heads? Begging God to spare him?”
Emily stayed silent. A stupid accident—Daniel crossing the road, a driver not seeing him in the dark. Three days in intensive care. No goodbye.
“Remember…” Margaret wiped her eyes, “how he taught me to crimp pastries? Said I folded them wrong. Flour up to his elbows, so serious.”
Emily chuckled. “And he never turned his lights off. You’d scold him, and he’d say he’d be back later.”
“I believed him. Thought we had years ahead. Weddings, grandchildren…”
They sat in silence. Outside, streetlamps flickered on.
“Charlie’s like him,” Emily said softly.
Margaret nodded. “Same stubbornness. Same curiosity. Even the same clever eyes.”
“Is that why it hurts to look at him sometimes?”
Margaret hesitated. “Not hurts. It’s… like time looping. As if Daniel’s ten again, asking a million questions.”
“Charlie deserves to know about him. He’s got a right to his uncle’s memory.”
Margaret stood, staring out the window. A dog barked in the distance.
“I’m scared, Em. If I open that door… it’s like losing him all over again.”
“Didn’t you lose him twenty years ago?”
Margaret turned. “You think I’ve lived wrong?”
“I think you’ve survived. But maybe it’s time to live differently.”
—
That night, Margaret lay awake, listening to Charlie’s soft snores—just like Daniel’s. At dawn, she slipped into the hall, key in hand. The lock clicked.
Dust motes swirled in the morning light as she stepped inside. Everything untouched—the desk piled with textbooks, band posters, the narrow bed. A graduation photo sat on the nightstand: Daniel, grinning, arms slung around friends.
Margaret lifted the frame, sitting on the bed’s edge.
“Sorry, love,” she whispered. “Keeping you trapped here… you’d hate that.”
She lingered, then turned off the light—but left the key on the hall shelf, beside a family photo. The last one they’d taken together.
At breakfast, Charlie pounced.
“Nan, what’s *really* in that room?”
Emily tensed, but Margaret set down her spoon.
“Your uncle Daniel lived there.”
Charlie gaped. “I’ve got an uncle? Where is he?”
Margaret met Emily’s gaze. “Gone, love. He died very young.”
“Was he nice?”
“Kind. Clever. Funny. A lot like you.”
Charlie frowned. “Can… can I see his room?”
Margaret fetched the key. “Gently, mind. It’s just as he left it.”
Sunlight flooded the room as she drew the curtains. Charlie tiptoed inside, scanning the textbooks, the guitar propped in a corner.
“Was he top of his class?”
“Decent. Wanted to be an engineer.”
“Why’d he die?”
Margaret pulled him close. “A car accident, love. But I reckon he’d have liked you. You’d have been pals.”
Charlie hugged her. “Can I sit here sometimes? Read his books?”
“Whenever you like.”
The door stayed open.
That night, Margaret told Charlie stories—how Daniel loved fish and chips, hated spiders, begged for a dog. How he’d bragged when Emily started school.
Charlie yawned. “Wish I’d known him.”
“You do now,” Margaret whispered. “And he knows you—watching from somewhere, proud of his nephew.”
The next morning, Charlie dashed to the room. Margaret found him at Daniel’s desk, flipping through a physics book.
“Interesting?”
“Brilliant! Did Uncle Dan love science?”
“Said it explained the world.”
They cleaned together—dusting, airing, straightening.
“Mum,” Emily said, polishing a photo frame, “the house feels lighter.”
Margaret agreed. The weight in her chest had eased.
Now the third room lived again. Charlie read Daniel’s books, studied his notes. Evenings became storytelling time.
No longer a shrine, the room became a bridge—where memories breathed, and love passed between generations.
The third room was no longer forbidden. It was open. Alive.
