The Room of Names

Lexile: 1150 | Grade: 8

Passage

The room didn’t have a sign. It sat at the end of a hallway no one used, behind a door that creaked even when no one touched it. Students said it used to be a storage closet, then a supply room, then something else. No one agreed on what, exactly. But Mira found it by accident, on a day she needed to disappear.

She stepped inside expecting boxes and dust. Instead, she found walls covered with names—hundreds, maybe thousands. Some were scribbled in pencil, others carved deep into the wood. Some names had stars next to them, or small symbols. A few were written in handwriting that looked exactly like hers. She stared at one for a long time. *Mira T.* It was dated two years ago.

But that didn’t make sense. Two years ago, she hadn’t even started at this school.

She touched the name gently. Nothing moved. Nothing flashed. But something shifted inside her—a memory she couldn’t place, like a dream fading before she could grab it. She looked around. Dozens of names surrounded hers. Some familiar. Some forgotten. One had been erased. Another was written over in a different color. The room felt still, but not silent.

Each time she returned, the names changed. New ones appeared. Old ones faded. One day, a friend’s name was gone. Another day, her name had moved lower on the wall. When she asked about the room, people looked confused. 'What room?' they'd ask, as if it had vanished from their maps.

Mira began to wonder if the room was real—or just something her mind had created. But each time she felt invisible in the real world, the door was still there. Each time she questioned who she was becoming, the walls still whispered names. Not loudly. Just enough.

On the last day of school, she stood before the wall with a pen in her hand. She didn’t write her full name this time. Just an initial. A line. A mark that only she would understand. Then she stepped back, nodded once, and walked out. The hallway seemed brighter. Her footsteps didn’t echo the same way.

And though she never saw the room again, she carried the name forward—unwritten, but still hers.