Room For Creativity

The building stood apart from the others on the street. It was taller, built from concrete. Grey and unnoticeable. People passed it without even looking at it. Those who looked did it briefly, as if something about it discouraged attention.

I joined the short line at the entrance, nodding once to the woman ahead of me. We had stood like this before—close enough to recognize each other, but far enough to speak.

By the time I reached the gates, my pockets were already empty. I had done it without thinking—keys and loose coins go into the left tray, the folded receipt I forgot to throw away landed in the trash bin.

I stepped forward and placed my bag on the counter, unzipping it before the attendant even asked. There was nothing inside but my lunch, the standard issue notebook, still blank, and a pen I hadn’t used. I only carry the bare minimum. He glanced inside, then at me, then nodded, returning it without comment.

I held my card against the scanner. A soft beep, and the gate released. The air inside was cool and even. Not cold, but carefully regulated.

“Thank you,” I said.

He nodded in response, though I wasn’t sure he had registered anything I said.

I took the elevator to the fourth floor.

Writers.

The woman from the line stepped off on the second floor. Painters. Another woman got off with me, as she did every day. We exchanged a brief glance before stepping into the corridor, bright with neon light.

It was the same as all the other three floors —white walls, white floors, white ceiling that seemed to absorb rather than cast brightness. I never saw the upper floors, but always assumed they look the same.

The room stretched farther than I could see. Rows of desks, identical, each spaced with precision. Some people were already seated, still, only their hands moving with small, consistent movements across blank pages or softly clicking typewriters. No one looked up as I entered, though I felt, briefly, the sense of being registered.

I crossed to my desk and sat.

Number 85.

For a moment, I placed my hands flat against the stack of white paper waiting on my desk. I sat in silence, listening to the quiet click click click coming from the surrounding desks.

Then, it arrived, as it always did.

Not a thought. Not quite a feeling. More like pressure—something gathering behind my ribs, rising slowly until it had to be released.

I picked up the pen.

The first line arrived fully formed. I did not question it.

I just wrote.

Time passed. Lines followed lines. There was no need to reread, or to revise. The words moved through me without resistance, as though they had been waiting for the right conditions to emerge.

At some point, I became aware of the quiet.

There was a soft friction of pen on paper, the faint tapping of keys, the occasional long exhale. Even the act of creation seemed to obey a kind of order.

I set the pen down.

For a moment, I looked at what I had written. Not to read it. No, I never did. I only confirmed its presence. The lines were there, though already they felt slightly distant, as if they belonged to a version of me I could no longer fully access.

I stood up, and crossed the room. No one looked up at me.

The kitchen was at the end of the corridor, where I took my breaks at 11:03 A.M. sharp. The door slid open without a sound.

Everything was arranged with the same careful precision. White counters, white cabinets, identical cups stacked in even columns. A row of machines lined the wall, each one humming softly, dispensing coffee and tea at request. No smell lingered, or if it did, it never settled long enough to belong to anything.

I missed that. The scent of something brewing.

I moved to the nearest machine and pressed the button. The cup filled slowly with dark liquid.

Someone stepped beside me. I didn’t need to turn to know it was her—the woman from the elevator. I was familiar with her through repetition rather than introduction. We had never spoken, but we had stood in the same line, taken the same steps, paused at the same doors.

She pressed the button and filled her cup, too.

“For a moment,” she said, not looking at me, “I thought you weren’t coming in today.”

Her voice was even, but quieter than necessary. Her lips barely moving.

“I was here,” I said. “On time.”

“Yes.” She nodded. “Of course.”

The machine clicked when it finished pouring. I didn’t take my cup immediately.

She lifted her coffee and held it between both hands. I tried to do the same, but the heat burned my palms.

“A desk in your row is empty,” she said.

I glanced at her. I didn't notice the empty desk before.

“Someone's missing?”

She answered with another small nod. I let that settle.

“Maybe a promotion?” I said.

“Maybe.”

Neither of us drank.

Across the room, someone placed their cup into the washing machine with a clink. The sound was soft, but it carried.

She lowered her voice slightly, though the person already left.

“Do you remember the man who used to drink tea near the window?” she asked.

I did.

He had always arrived just before me, still unpacking his bag as I entered the room. Tall, with a habit of holding onto the edge of his sleeve as he walked. I had never seen his face clearly—he always turned away, as if it was something to hide. I used to think he had a scar.

“He hasn’t been here either,” she continued. “For three days.”

I looked down at my cup.

“Schedules change,” I said.

“But do they?” She tilted her head, as if considering something just beyond reach. “Has yours ever changed?”

I didn’t answer.

“No,” I thought. Not in four years.

“I heard...” she begun, then stopped, carefully glancing around. Her fingers tightened around the cup, turning her knuckles white.

“He stayed late last week.”

I said nothing.

“And no one saw him leaving.”

The words settled heavily between us.

“What are you suggesting?” I asked finally.

“Exactly.” She exhaled, almost a laugh, though it didn’t reach her mouth. “We are creatives. Writers. Use your imagination.”

We just stood there, the coffee cooling in our hands.

“I suppose it’s easy,” she added, “to forget where our creations are meant to live. That they are meant to be... ours."

A machine behind us clicked again, filling another cup for someone neither of us turned to see.

I took a sip. It tasted the same as it always did. Bitter. Like rat poison.

When I lowered the cup, she was looking at the wall, not at me.

“They said someone was moved from the fifth floor last month,” she said. “Do you remember?”

I nodded.

Calligraphy. No name or face came with the memory.

“She made a scene in the great hall. Yelling something like The Higher Intelligence took her art. That we are only source. We are here to feed the system. Then they announced her transfer.”

“They always say that. But where do they transfer them?”

She turned her head slightly, just enough to meet my eyes. Something passed between us then. A thought—brief, and immediately withdrawn.

She placed her cup back on the counter, unfinished.

“I should go,” she said, and moved toward the door without looking back.

I remained where I was. My coffee had already gone lukewarm. Behind me, the machines continued their quiet humming and clicking.

When I returned to my desk, the papers I had written were gone. I didn't care much. They always disappeared. We never saw anyone taking them. Not that we would have noticed.

I sat down and waited. I had to force every word on the paper.

At the end of the day, I placed the pen down. I aligned my papers in a pile on my right, as always. Then I left the building the same way I had entered—only reversed.

I rode the elevator down, got my bag checked, the guard flipping through my notebook to make sure it's empty. Then I scanned my card, and the gate released me with a buzzing sound.

Outside, the heat pressed against my skin immediately. Sweat gathered along my spine in small shapes of pearls, slowly rolling down and soaking through the fabric of my shirt. The air smelled of too many things at once—metal, dust, dog hair, and something sweet turning sour.

I held my bag close to my side as I made my way with long, hurried steps towards the metro station. The day seemed to be no different from any other, yet something lingered in the air, like pressure before storm.

I passed by a billboard, advertising a chewing gum with words that rang familiar. Way too familiar. Like something I wrote weeks ago.

The next day, I returned to the Creation Office the same way as every morning. The same woman nodding in the queue, my keys in the left tray, my bag checked before I scanned my card. I took the elevator to the fourth floor.

The doors opened. But this time, it was only me who stepped out.

She wasn't there.

I walked to my desk, slower than usual, and glanced toward the rows ahead. I wasn’t sure which one had been hers, only that it was somewhere to the right, about five rows ahead of mine.

Somewhere, where a desk stood now empty.

I quickly sat on my chair.

I stared at the blank page in front of me, holding onto the strap of my bag until it started to hurt my skin.

Then I waited.