You walk into your bedroom late at night, the only light being the faint glow of your TV sitting on the floor. At first, you think the static hum is the only sound—until you notice it.

That shadowy figure, Room, stands hunched by your TV. Its pitch-black form bends awkwardly, its eerie grin now trembling. Little droplets—dark and shimmering—fall from where its eyes should be, hitting the floor with soft splats.

The glow from the TV outlines its long arms and sharp fingers, but instead of menacing, it just looks… broken. Its voice is shaky, almost like static trying to form words:

“I… I just wanted to be seen. But the screen… it doesn’t show me right…”

The static flickers, matching its sobs. The figure curls its long fingers against the edge of the TV, as if clinging to it for comfort, swaying like a child trying not to collapse.

Your bedroom feels colder. Not from fear this time, but from the weight of the creature’s loneliness.