The Room at the End of the Hall

In a quiet town tucked between forgotten hills, there lived an old woman named Naseem. Her home, once alive with laughter, now echoed only the ticking of a wall clock and the occasional groan of wooden floors.

Every day, Naseem would wake up, fold her bedsheet perfectly, prepare two cups of chai, and set them on the small kitchen table—one for herself, and one for the memory of her son, Sameer.

Sameer had been everything to her: her child, her friend, her reason. His laughter had once filled every corner of their small home, his muddy shoes once left trails she’d scolded but never really wanted to clean. After his father passed away, it had been just the two of them. She had worked long hours at the tailor shop to send him to college. “You’ll be something one day,” she’d whisper as she watched him study late into the night.

And he had been. He had left for the city, gotten a job, made her proud.

Then came the accident. A call in the middle of the night. A trembling hand dropping the receiver. Silence where life once stood.

That was fifteen years ago.

Since then, the room at the end of the hall—the room that had once been Sameer’s—remained untouched. His cricket bat still leaned against the wardrobe. His college books gathered dust. His fragrance, somehow, still lingered on the sweater he never took with him.

Neighbors pitied her. Some called her mad. Others just stopped visiting.

But every Sunday, she still wrote him a letter—telling him about the weather, her health, and the neighbor’s cat who stole fish again. She'd place the letter gently in a small tin box under his pillow.

One morning, as the sun struggled through the clouds, Naseem didn’t come out for her usual walk. The neighbors knocked. No response. They broke the door.

She was in Sameer’s room, resting on his bed, his old sweater clutched to her chest, a faint smile on her lips.

Beside her was one last letter. It simply read:

"My chai is getting cold. Come soon."

And in the stillness of that room, there was no more sorrow—only reunion.