“ The keys rest beneath the carpet at the door.

Heavy, metal, awkward in shape — they do not hide well,

and that is the point.

I place them so you’d feel them before you see them,

so the soles of your feet would know before your eyes do.

Sometimes I turn them, shift them,

checking with bare feet if their presence still speaks.

Each day I make sure —

no chance they could be missed.

There are other signs, too,

ones only you would understand.

When you find the door closed,

know it is not locked to you.

It closes for others.

For you, it opens.

Inside, the air is warm and still,

the floorboards bare of any step but mine.

Towels folded like white clouds,

sheets smoothed, corners sharp.

Dust has no time to settle here.

The lights spill soft gold into the hallway,

never once switched off.

Not even for a second has this place been left alone.

The tea is brewed, steam curling up in slow ribbons,

fogging the edge of the window.

A meal waits in the pan,

still holding the day’s warmth,

ready to be brought back to life the moment you arrive.

Something is cooked every day —

for hunger, for comfort, for you.

You can arrive tired,

wind in your hair, dust on your shoes.

The bed will be ready,

the sheets cool and clean.

You can lie down, close your eyes,

and let the weight slip away.

If you want to be alone,

the silence will hold you.

If you want to call,

I will come.

No questions, no rush.

This room is not for a night.

It is not a guest room.

It is not temporary.

It is forever.

It stands here,

warm,

kept as it has always been

in this small corner of the world where I wait —

lights steady,

door ready,

keys beneath the carpet…“