Rooms of Forgotten Joy

The air in the hallway tasted like old dust and sunshine, a strange combination that tickled my nose. I pushed open a door, and my breath hitched. It wasn't a room like any I’d ever seen. It was more like a memory made solid, a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes that swirled and shifted. Sunlight, thick and syrupy, poured in from windows that weren’t there, illuminating motes of dust that danced like tiny, golden fairies.

In the center of the space, a rocking horse, chipped and faded, swayed gently as if a phantom rider had just dismounted. Its painted eyes seemed to hold a secret, a faraway look that made my own eyes sting. Scattered around it were building blocks, their primary colors muted by time, and a tattered teddy bear with one button eye missing. I recognized them, a jolt of recognition that was both warm and achy. These were *my* things. Or rather, they had been. I’d loved that rocking horse, and I’d spent hours building towers that scraped the sky with those blocks. And the teddy bear… I remembered hugging him so tight at night, his fuzzy ear a comfort against my cheek.

A faint melody, like a music box winding down, drifted through the air. It was a song I hadn't heard in years, a lullaby my grandmother used to sing. The sound wrapped around me, soft and sweet, but laced with a thread of something sharp, something that pricked at the edges of my happiness. The Shadow of Regret, a formless stain against the vibrant colors, had followed me in. It pulsed at the edges of my vision, a ripple of darkness that seemed to absorb the light. Its presence made the air grow cold, and the cheerful colors of the room seemed to dim, like a photograph left too long in the sun.