Room 9B’s been empty for weeks,
but the mattress still creaks like it hears him speak.
The air’s too warm where his body laid,
and the walls still hum the things he never said.
They stripped the sheets and wiped the floors,
changed the locks and oiled the doors.
But every night around half past two,
the bed folds in like it remembers you.
He wasn’t loud, just always there–
breathing slow like he filled the air.
He’d tap the window glass and wait,
and whisper things the vents translate.
Room 9B still smells like him–
sweat and sorrow, bleach and sin.
No candles clear the stench he left,
just grief in linen, soft and deaf.
And when I walk too close, it clings,
like the walls still wear his things.
I heard they moved him to another ward,
or maybe the morgue–I was never sure.
One nurse cried and wouldn’t say,
just looked at the door like he’d still stay.
The vents leak warm where they should blow cold,
and the light stays dim like it’s grown old.
I saw his name carved deep in the bed–
then blinked, and it read mine instead.
I sleep in 10B, but the walls are thin,
and every night I hear him breathe again.
Sometimes he hums the tune we shared–
and I answer back, pretending I’m repaired.
They offered me a different room last night,
said 9B makes the others fight.
But I said no–because I still wait,
for him to knock. For him to relate.