The Conference Room With No Windows

Every Monday at 9:00 a.m., the team met in Conference Room B.

It had no windows.

No one remembered when it had stopped having windows. Most people were sure it used to have at least one. Possibly two. Facing east. Or west. The direction shifted depending on who was speaking. But now the walls were seamless, uninterrupted drywall, painted a neutral beige that never reflected enough light to confirm the time of day.

At 8:58, everyone took their usual seats.

Elliot sat at the far end, closest to the door. Marlene sat across from him, organizing her pen parallel to her notebook. Greg scrolled through his phone, his face washed in its soft blue glow.

At 9:00 exactly, the overhead lights flickered once.

No one reacted.

At 9:01, the lights flickered again.

Elliot looked up briefly, then back down.

At 9:02, the lights went out completely.

Darkness filled the room—not sudden, but heavy. The kind that felt layered, like something had settled into place rather than disappeared.

No one spoke.

After a moment, Marlene said, “Should we get started?”

Greg cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

Someone shuffled papers.

Elliot could hear breathing. Several different rhythms. Slow. Controlled.

He couldn’t see anyone.

He couldn’t see himself.

Still, he knew exactly where everyone was.

“Let’s begin with last week’s numbers,” Marlene said.

Her voice came from across the table. Calm. Professional.

Greg responded, “We saw a six percent increase.”

The meeting continued.

Voices moved through the dark with perfect confidence. Pages turned. Pens scratched.

No one asked about the lights.

No one stood.

No one opened the door.

Elliot waited for his eyes to adjust.

They didn’t.

He held his hands up in front of his face. He felt their shape. Their warmth.

But he couldn’t see them.

He lowered them slowly, careful not to make noise.

“We’ll need projections by Friday,” Marlene said.

“That’s doable,” Greg replied.

A chair creaked slightly.

Elliot swallowed.

He tried to remember what the room looked like.

The table was rectangular. Or oval. He was certain it had edges. He remembered placing his notebook down earlier.

He slid his hand forward cautiously.

His fingers touched paper.

He exhaled quietly.

Everything was still there.

Everything except the light.

At some point, Elliot became aware of something else.

The air wasn’t moving.

Not just still—sealed.

He listened carefully.

He could hear breathing.

But he couldn’t hear ventilation.

No hum. No circulation.

The room held them.

“Marlene,” Elliot said carefully, “do you think we should check the breaker?”

There was a brief pause.

Then Marlene said, “It’s fine.”

Her tone wasn’t dismissive. Just certain.

“We’ve done this before.”

Elliot frowned.

He didn’t remember doing this before.

But Greg nodded. Elliot could hear the fabric of his shirt shift.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “It comes back.”

No one sounded concerned.

Elliot sat back.

He waited.

The darkness did not change.

Time passed.

Or something like it.

They finished discussing projections.

They reviewed timelines.

They moved on to staffing.

Elliot spoke when it was his turn.

His voice sounded normal. Steady.

He almost believed it was.

At one point, someone laughed softly.

The sound hung in the air longer than it should have.

Eventually, Marlene said, “That’s everything.”

Chairs shifted.

Notebooks closed.

The meeting was over.

But no one stood.

Elliot waited.

He heard breathing.

Four people.

He counted carefully.

Four.

There were supposed to be five.

He opened his mouth, then stopped.

He counted again.

Four.

Someone was missing.

Or had always been missing.

No one said anything.

Finally, Greg spoke.

“Same time next week.”

Marlene said, “Of course.”

Elliot nodded automatically.

He realized he had no idea if anyone could see him nod.

The door did not open.

No one reached for it.

No one mentioned it.

Elliot listened for footsteps.

None came.

He shifted in his chair.

The sound was too loud.

“Marlene?” he said.

“Yes?”

“Are we leaving?”

There was a pause.

Then Marlene said, gently, “We did.”

Elliot frowned.

He was still sitting.

He could feel the chair beneath him.

His hands rested on the table.

His notebook lay open.

He hadn’t moved.

None of them had.

Greg said, “You’ll get used to it.”

Elliot’s chest tightened slightly.

“Used to what?”

No one answered.

He tried to remember arriving that morning.

The elevator.

The hallway.

His desk.

He remembered sitting down.

He remembered opening his email.

He remembered the meeting invite.

Conference Room B.

9:00 a.m.

He remembered walking in.

He remembered taking his seat.

He did not remember leaving.

He did not remember standing.

He did not remember opening the door.

He did not remember light.

After a while, Elliot noticed something else.

He wasn’t hungry.

He wasn’t thirsty.

He wasn’t tired.

His body existed only where it touched something else—the chair, the table, the air against his skin.

Beyond that, there was nothing.

“Marlene,” he said quietly.

“Yes?”

“How long have we been here?”

Her answer came without hesitation.

“Just the meeting.”

He nodded again.

Of course.

Just the meeting.

Somewhere, far beyond the room, Elliot thought he heard something.

A faint echo.

A version of his own voice.

Laughing.

Walking.

Living.

It faded quickly.

He focused on the table beneath his hands.

On the breathing around him.

On the certainty in their voices.

Greg said, “See you next week.”

Elliot said, “Yeah.”

He meant it.

He would be here.

They all would.

Conference Room B.

No windows.

No light.

Just the meeting.

Still ongoing.