House of Blossoms
A place for when we need to heal, for as long as we need. Time is infinite and there is always space to express ourselves.
The book was a small, old paperback. Not parchment-paper-old, but old enough for the back to be marked with opening wrinkles and the pages to start taking on a yellow hue. The cover was a picture of a woman in sepia tones. However, the most notable thing about the book were two pages in the middle.
Those pages were blank, or at least they must have been when the book was printed. They sat halfway through the book, puzzling and enticing readers with their emptiness. She liked to picture the first time a reader opened that book and decided to use that white space. She imagined them stroke the shiny new pages, ideas bubbling up in their head, then reach for a pencil or a pen. Maybe a brush? She liked to wonder whether they had been a writer, a painter, or a sketcher.
Her friend was one of the painters; she knew it. She had recognised her work. The lady was painted on the first page, towards the centre. She had to flatten the book open to see the edges of her flowing dress. She looked like she was soaring from the spine in a triumphant burst of colours, like a peony in full bloom. The lady was a witness to her friend’s stay in that same hostel where she was now. Looking at that illustration, she felt like a baton had been passed on to her. From one recovered person to a broken one. A baton of brokenness. Or, better, a baton of recovery. Healing.
‘I think you need to stay at this hostel for a while. It will help you. It helped me a lot. You can stroll around the city during the day and relax in the evening. The hostel has a great library, too.’
Yes, the library. She had found it on her second day, when she was still surveying the place, still finding her footing in the intoxicating yet heavy solitude of being in a hostel by herself. She noticed a door next to the stairs; it was white and unassuming, almost blending in with the wall, with a library sign next to it. She entered, closing the door behind her, and stopped for a second: she was expecting a modern, well-lit room in pastel colours, a couple of bookshelves full of paperbacks. Maybe even some beanbag chairs. She was wrong.
This library looked like a Victorian dream: the walls were lined with deep brown bookcases, each case closed by glass doors to keep away the dust. An ottoman and two armchairs by a window invited her to pick a book and relax in their embrace. At the centre of the room, an exquisitely carved desk and chair were beckoning her to sit and write long letters, or maybe a novel. She stood awhile, torn between the two competing calls, before turning to the nearest bookcase and opening the glass door. That was when she found the book.
‘How many days do you think I should book?’
‘Trust me, they know how long you need to stay.’
They do? She had frowned, and her friend had quickly added, ‘Not in a creepy way, but, well… The place is a bit special. Anyway, on the website, you can probably just book a week or so.’
A week. Fine. A week would do.
After two weeks, she stopped wondering when she'd be ready to leave. Her friend had seen her off at the airport and hugged her with one last piece of advice: ‘don’t rush the process. Healing takes as long as it takes.’ Upon arrival at the hostel, she had decided to follow the advice. And to look for the library.
It was the first book she had found in the library. In fact, it seemed like it was waiting for her, its spine slightly poking out of a disordered line of paperbacks in various states of use. She took it, slightly surprised at the stark difference between the books and the room that hosted them. They must have been left by other travellers; other people sent there by concerned friends. Stray books looking for a new home? Or travelling books waiting for their next destination. She sat on the ottoman, opened the book, and started reading.
She spent nearly every evening in the library. At first, she ignored the call of the desk to sit and write. She would read and read, and often nap on the ottoman. By the end of the first week, she sat at the desk for the first time, took a pencil and wrote a poem in one of the few remaining spaces. She got up at once, feeling embarrassed. At least it's in pencil, she told herself, I can always erase it. There was no pressure to be perfect, or even productive. She had infinite time on her hands.
Nobody was asking her to leave anyway. In fact, nobody seemed to run the place at all. For her check-in, she had simply received two codes on her phone: one for the entrance, and one for her room. The same message informed her that the codes would be changed twice a month for safety reasons. Did they expect her to stay that long?
The hostel seemed suited for long stays. Her room had a firm mattress, pillows of various sizes and shapes, blankets for different seasons. In a corner was a desk with a pine green lamp on top, and a chair. The painting of an orchid hung next to the desk. A sign in the bathroom kindly asked guests to place on the floor any towels they wished replaced. Deep cleaning would happen every Wednesday morning.
On the second Wednesday, after not seeing any staff for the previous fourteen days, she had tried to stay in her room all morning. At one thirty, she was starving and had to go to the kitchen to make herself lunch. She saw no cleaning carts in the corridor. Within half an hour, she was back: her room was sparkling clean, and on the desk was a note apologising for the delay. That day, she sat at the desk again, opened the book, and took the eraser. She kept rubbing long after the last pencil sign had disappeared.
After this attempt, she decided to stop investigating every peculiarity. Like breakfast. On her second day, she had woken up with her stomach rumbling for the first time in months. She had spent a long time in bed, staring at the alarm and debating whether it was late enough for the breakfast room to be empty of guests. Shortly before the end of breakfast, feeling slightly dizzy from hunger, she had gingerly made her way.
In the breakfast room, she found a long table with a parade of half a dozen glass cloches with trays of food inside, and smaller tables scattered around the room. Each small table and cloche were marked with the name of a flower. She realised then that all the rooms had flower names: Hydrangea, Lotus, Daffodil, and her own, Orchid, and that each cloche and table was marked. She started a morning game of guessing which rooms were occupied based on which cloches had food, and which guests had already eaten by which tables had dirty plates and cutlery on top. She never met anyone during breakfast.
Every other day, she would go out and wander the city. At first, she was visiting all the main tourist attractions, taking pictures, buying postcards for friends and family. By the end of the first week, she lost the postcards in her room. After emptying every drawer and bag, she decided to stop trying to justify her stay. She was not a tourist. She was healing. Her destinations changed from museums and tourist spots to dusty antique shops, gardens, metro lines. She especially liked big supermarkets. The neat alignment of tins and boxes on the shelves exuded a soothing feeling, sprinkled with the novelty of the products she had never tried. She would often buy a new drink, sweet or snack to try.
At the end of the fourth week, she sat down at the desk for the last time and grabbed a pen. Word for word, she rewrote the poem, her pen lingering at the end of every line. When she finished, she stretched on the chair and looked ahead. Then, slowly, she stood up, closed the book, and put it back where she found it. She stroked the spine and smiled.
The next morning, she found her receipt in her breakfast tray and a box of chocolates, with a card saying:
She smiled, thinking, I might be back one day, and got up to pack her bags.
I need this vacation <3
OH. MY. GOODNESS. I'm obsessed with the House of Blossoms and need to stay there. How can I book a room? :D
Just loving all the cozy, beautiful sensory details in this piece. I hope our narrator found the healing she was seeking.
And I also absolutely love the thank-you card! Now it FEELS SO REAL... because it IS REAL. Whoooooo
Love always,
M