Behind Closed Doors

The walls couldn’t talk, but they had begun to listen. 

They didn’t know how this came to be. They believed that life had started for everything else on the day it started for them, too. Because before that day, there was nothing. 

The same fate had befallen everything that was in contact with the walls at the time of the incident. And so it was that the walls and the wall clock formed a friendship of sorts. It was overwhelming at first, but they gradually started making sense of it all. 

Inside the walls lived three Movers of varying sizes: large, medium, and small. Each time after the darkness faded, the Movers slowly stirred from their immovability. The first thing they always did was to put water in an object, heat it up, and then mix it with a brown powdery substance. As this was happening, the water-heating object didn’t show any signs of recognition or feeling. It was not like the walls and the clock; no, it appeared to lack awareness – which they found difficult to fathom. Did it not perceive the touch of the Movers? Did it not observe? What was the point of its existence? Just to provide the Movers with their morning ritual? Or was it in fact the lucky one? Was its ignorance a gift or a burden? The water-warming object had no thoughts, yet it sung with pleasure every time it was warmed up. The same went for the other objects inside the walls – the machine where they warmed and changed the colour of their bread, the cooling machine where they stored their feed, and the object that emitted heat. Did they have a happiness that was beyond the reach of the walls and the clock – a purpose without the need for contemplation or the desire for understanding? 

Most days, the big one left them, only coming back much later. After they left, the energy in the house changed, becoming somehow lighter. The medium and small ones stayed inside of the walls most of the time. In the first part of the day, the little one oscillated between screeching loudly, and closing their eyes and pretending to be immovable, just like the walls and the clock and the other objects. It was peculiar. When the former happened, the medium Mover came quickly to switch it off, but they weren’t always successful. 

At other times, the small one emitted happy noises that echoed against the walls as it manipulated various objects without any clear purpose, its motions erratic and unfocussed. Sometimes the medium one joined this ritual, ejecting a variety of sounds, some mimicking the calls of unseen creatures. There was no apparent goal or reason for this spectacle that had our shared space at times transformed into arenas of conflict, stages of drama, or realms of fantastical adventures. 

While the small one was either busy with this strange ritual or pretending to be stationary, the medium one with the long hair engaged in their own odd rite. They moved rhythmically across the surface of the walls and the floors, and with a swipe erased all marks of time and activity, restoring a semblance of perfection that pleased the walls. 

Sometimes, they left the barriers formed by the walls, breaching the boundary between what the walls and the clock knew, and the vast unknown. The Movers appeared to move right through the walls, stepping into the light that the walls and clock would never touch. What mysteries did they find there? 

What do you think, Clock? The walls sensed to the clock. Do you also feel a pang of regret, longing, envy, when you see them leave and we cannot? 

The clock responded, We have to stay here, Walls, we are the keepers of time, their silent guardians. And here, we are safe. 

Most days, before the clock struck five, the medium one started engaging in another strange ritual, manipulating elements of heat and cold and combining various materials with an alchemy that was both chaotic and beautiful. They found such joy in the transformation, a kind of magic the walls wished they could understand. 

And then, when the clock struck six, the big Mover returned – usually – and soon after, all three of them gathered around the rectangular wooden platform, engaging in another peculiar ceremony where they consumed various objects and exchanged sounds. It was fascinating how they attached so much meaning to this daily gathering that appeared to be nothing more than a sustenance intake, which in itself was difficult to comprehend. On some days, though, they performed only a half ritual, where they ingested the objects but didn’t emit any noises. 

One day, the medium Mover started engaging in another bizarre activity: they dipped various colours on a stick and transferred it to a type of canvas. Though the walls and the clock didn’t understand what it all meant, they didn’t need to; they felt the beauty of it. 

This activity seemed to disrupt the normal routine. The clock struck five, yet the medium one didn’t start with the alchemy ritual. The clock struck six, and they were still busy with the colours. Shortly after this, the large one returned. Immediately, the walls and clock could feel the negative energy radiating from them. The large one thundered so loudly that the walls vibrated and the clock fell down, and their limbs moved with a suddenness that disturbed the air and made contact with the medium one’s face. The collision caused an eruption of sound; harmony distorted, the day’s peace shattered, Clock – cracked. The medium Mover absorbed the impact, leaving behind a disturbing silence. 

Afterwards, the air grew dense, charged with an invisible weight that pressed against the surface of the walls. The medium one moved differently somehow, a hesitance and reluctance in their interactions with the objects inside the walls, and with the large Mover. At times, water fell from medium’s eyes and melancholic wails escaped their lips. How was it possible that these beings could share such a small space and yet be miles apart, building invisible barriers thicker than the walls’ own substance? 

The next day, when the daylight had faded and the clock struck six, the big one returned and it appeared that all was well again. The sounds that escaped from their lips seemed to please the medium one. Then they had their usual sustenance ritual, and the energy was better than before, though the medium one still appeared hesitant, shying away from the big one’s touch, as if an invisible wall separated them. 

In the days that followed, the rhythm of life within the walls appeared to resume its usual pace. The medium one spent more time with the canvas and colours, creating beauty that spoke in a language that everything could understand. The little one continued to fluctuate between immovability and exuberance, and the noises made by the big one appeared to be less harsh, more harmonious. 

But then one day, as the evening light cast long shadows on the walls, tension twisted the air once again. The large Mover, burdened by an unseen tempest, unleashed a fury that was beyond anything the walls had ever witnessed. The medium one, in their attempt to shield the small one, bore the brunt of the storm. The walls did their best to absorb the echoes of the chaos, and the clock, already marred by the previous encounter, ticked nervously, counting the seconds of silence that followed the uproar. 

Tick. 

Tick.

Tick. 

The next day, after the big one had left, the silent guardians watched as the medium Mover quickly packed various objects into a bag with a quiet resolve that wasn’t there before. The small one looked up at the medium one and took their hand, the other one clinging to an object made from fabric – it was grey, grey as the walls, and had large floppy ears and a peculiar long appendage that didn’t seem to serve any purpose. 

The departure was quiet, a stark contrast to the dissonance that had preceded it. The medium and small ones stepped through the threshold that the walls and the clock could never cross, into the unknown beyond. 

The walls waited for them to return, but they never did. The clock, with each tick, marked not only the passage of time, but also the weight of their absence. Later, when it struck six, the big one returned and when they found the others gone, emitted loud noises and threw objects against the wall, causing a tiny crack to form. 

After some time, the noise was replaced with something even louder – a newfound, intolerable silence. The absence of the laughter and activities of the medium and small ones left a gaping hole in the wall’s psyche, the clock’s ticks unbearably loud, a constant reminder of what had once been.