Unread Light

When I came home, there was one more light in the room.

It was a small white rectangle on the wall, about the size of my palm. Not a switch, not a frame, not anything that had been there that morning.

It made no sound. It simply glowed.

I checked my phone. There was one unread message, a short one that had arrived in the afternoon. It had not looked urgent, so I had left it alone.

While I stood there deciding whether to open it, the rectangle on the wall grew a little brighter.

The next day, there were three unread messages.

One I did not know how to answer. One I could read later. One that would make me decide something if I opened it.

When I returned home, there were three lights.

One on the desk. One near the curtain. One beside a book I had dropped on the floor. They were all the same quiet white, pushing the shadows back without warming the room.

There was no manual for this.

I almost called the building office, then stopped. I did not know how to explain that my apartment had begun lighting itself with things I had not read.

When I opened one message, the light on the desk went out.

It was nothing much. A practical note. I sent a short reply and left the other two closed.

That night, the room was dark in exactly the right places.

For a few days, I began to let unread messages gather. Not many. Just enough that I did not need to turn on the lamp.

But unread words were not only light.

Before sleep, I saw a small shadow move beside one of the rectangles on the wall. No one was standing there. It was only the shape of a sentence that had not been received.

I opened the oldest message.

“Whenever you feel ready.”

That was all it said.

The light did not go out.

Instead, it lowered slightly and kept shining into the corner of the room.

That was when I learned that some lights remain after the message has been read.