The Last Light in Room 27

The Last Light in Room 27

Every night at exactly 11:47 PM, a single light flickered on in Room 27 of the old city library.

No one worked there anymore.
No one was supposed to.

Ethan, a night security guard with a habit of noticing small things, had watched it happen for three weeks straight. Same time. Same soft yellow glow. Then darkness again after exactly two minutes.

On the twenty-second night, curiosity defeated caution.

He climbed the narrow staircase, his footsteps echoing like whispers. Room 27 stood at the end of the hall, its door slightly open, light spilling onto the dusty floor.

Inside, the room was bare—except for an old wooden desk and a small lamp.

And a woman.

She looked up, startled, as if she hadn’t expected to be seen.

“I’m sorry,” Ethan said quickly. “I didn’t mean to— I just… this light.”

She smiled, but there was sadness in it. “I only have two minutes,” she said.

“Two minutes for what?”

“To remember.”

She explained that she had been a writer, working in this very room decades ago. On the night she finished her last story, a fire broke out. Everyone escaped—except her. The library was rebuilt, but something of her remained, tied to the place where her final words were written.

“The light?” Ethan asked softly.

“It turns on when someone is willing to notice,” she replied.

The lamp flickered.

Her figure began to fade.

“Wait,” Ethan said. “What was the last story about?”

She smiled again, this time warmly.
“It was about a man who paid attention.”

The light went out.

The room was empty.

From that night on, Room 27 never lit up again. But Ethan changed. He noticed things—people, moments, stories left untold.

And sometimes, when he walked past the library late at night, he swore the darkness felt a little less lonely.