The Room with the Elephant

Today, opening the door feels heavier than usual.

It’s the same door that once had a small pink elephant sticker — the one Mom placed when she made my first bedroom. I was only three then. She knew I loved elephants. And maybe, just maybe, she also knew this door would one day hold back my tears.

I brush my fingers over the worn, cracked surface of the sticker. Time has faded its eyes, but the memories it holds are still vivid in mine.

When Mom was alive, this room wasn’t just four walls — it was her embrace.

Every morning when sunlight filtered in through the window, she’d sing softly:

“Wake up, my little prince, the sun is smiling just for you.”

Everything carried her presence:

The bedsheet still held her scent,

The pages of storybooks bore the bend of her fingers,

And that old music box she wound every night?

Its lullaby still echoed in my bones.

Then, one day… she was gone.

Some illness, a few quiet days, and then just silence.

People came and went, offered prayers and heavy words.

And I? I stared at that elephant sticker on the door,

just waiting for Mom to emerge behind it —

smiling, with a glass of milk in one hand and mischief in her eyes.

After she left, the room was locked.

Dad said, “Don’t go in there, son. Memories hurt.”

And they did.

But today, two years later, I’ve finally come to open it again.

My hands tremble. My heart races with an ache I’ve buried too long.

I take a deep breath… and slowly, the door creaks open.

The room is exactly as she left it.

The pillows are still fluffed, the books still stacked,

and on the desk — a letter.

“To my little one...”

I sit down on the edge of the bed, letter in hand.

Tears fall freely now, but I don’t stop reading.

“My darling child,

If you’re reading this, I may no longer be with you.

But know this — love never truly leaves.

This room, this little elephant, every corner… it’s my heart.

Whenever life feels heavy, whenever tears press on your chest,

come here.

My stories, my laughter, my prayers — they’ll be waiting for you.

You were my most beautiful dream.

With endless love,

Mom.”

I hold the letter to my chest.

The silence in the room isn’t cold — it’s comforting.

I can almost feel her presence, hear her footsteps again.

The music box turns on by itself, slowly playing that same lullaby.

I kneel on the rug and pull out a small note from my pocket.

I slide it gently under her letter.

“Mom,

I’ve started writing.

Your stories, your words — I’m putting them into mine.

Maybe one day, some other child will read them

and feel their mother’s face light up in their memory.

I miss you — with every heartbeat.

Your son.”

Final Thought:

Some doors aren’t made of wood — they’re made of love.

And some elephants? They’re not toys — they’re guardians of memory.

If you’ve ever lost someone, know this — they’re not truly gone.

They live in the places where their love once bloomed.

And sometimes, all it takes is an old sticker on a quiet door

to help you find your way back home.