In the Room Without Electricity, Two Strangers Begin to Speak About the Same Wounds

Once upon a time, on a particularly dark night, there stood an old house at the end of a street with no lights — somewhere on the outskirts of Portland. Inside, an antique-filled room, a dusty window barely letting the moonlight through, and nothing but stillness — until suddenly, the silence deepened when… the power went out.
That unexpected blackout left two people trapped in the dimness. They hadn’t met before, but by some strange coincidence, both had come to the house for different reasons: she was there to retrieve a letter left behind in the attic; he had come to fix an old circuit box that refused to work.
The man took careful steps toward the switchboard. He tried to bring the light back, but it was useless. The woman, sitting at the far end of the room, shivered slightly and folded her arms. There was a brief hesitation — a shared awareness in the dark — until she broke the silence:
— “Didn’t expect the power to go out,” she said. “Or anyone else to be here.”
— “Me neither,” he replied quietly. “But maybe that’s not such a bad thing. In the dark, secrets have fewer places to hide.”

And so, in that powerless room, surrounded by faint shadows cast by the moon, they began to talk. She told him that years ago, she had been left behind just when she needed someone the most — that she’d come to believe solitude was a way of living. He shared that he’d lost his brother in a car accident and had been haunted by guilt ever since. They realized that although their wounds looked different, they came from the same source: the ache of absence, the sting of unresolved goodbyes, the fear of moving forward when the lights go out.
They shared details they’d never told anyone. She mentioned a letter hidden in her desk drawer — unsent, addressed to an old love who never came back. He told her about a clock he kept frozen at the exact moment he got the fatal phone call. Both carried the same invisible weight: waiting for a sign that would never come, longing to close a door that had stayed open too long.
The house stayed silent. The darkness swallowed every object — the worn-out chair, the half-open wardrobe, the ticking wall clock that now seemed detached from its own sound. Then she got up and opened the window. A calm wind slipped in, brushing the curtains and adding a whisper to their words. He watched her, then offered his jacket. She took it. They spoke of fear — her fear of moving to a new city to start again, his fear of leaving the job that tied him to his brother’s memory.
Lightning flashed outside, followed by a gentle rumble of thunder. The room lit up for an instant, then fell dark again. They both jumped, then laughed softly. She said:
— “I used to think I was the only one carrying this sadness. But looking at you now… I see I’m not alone.”
He looked down, then up again.
— “And I,” he said, “always thought no one would ever understand. But here you are.”

As the night went on, and every minute deepened their connection, the darkness stopped being an enemy. It became an ally — one that let them speak without masks, listen without interruption, discover without rushing. She told him her dream of opening a small bookstore in a coastal town; he spoke of building miniature boats to feel in control of something, however fragile. Their stories intertwined. The pain in their lives revealed a new truth: sometimes, two parallel wounds can heal together.
Then silence returned to the room — but this time, it carried promise. The promise of courage, of change, of movement. She held his hand; he held hers. They said nothing else. They didn’t have to. Everything essential had already been said.
The night went on, the house still without electricity. But something had been lit inside them — a small spark, invisible to the eye, yet strong enough to light their way. That was the story of two strangers, in a dark room, finding hope in shared pain.