The Narratives – Mohamed Miah

James walked briskly up the steps to the entrance of the small hotel, barely noticing the chipped paint on the once-grand door. It had been a long day at work, and all he could think about was collapsing into the comfort of his room. The doorman, an old man with a perpetually furrowed brow and graying hair peeking out from under his cap, opened the door without a word. James barely acknowledged him with a nod as he passed.

“Evening,” the doorman muttered, more out of habit than expectation of a response. James didn’t bother with pleasantries.

Inside, the hotel was a strange mix of affluence and decay. The chandelier hanging in the small lobby was dusty, its crystals dulled by time, and the wallpaper—once a rich, regal pattern—was faded and peeling in places. The furniture was heavy and solid, though the upholstery was threadbare, revealing the years it had endured. There was an air of tired dignity about the place, as if it had seen better days but refused to surrender to neglect entirely.

James hurried through the lobby, his polished shoes clicking sharply on the worn marble floor. As he reached the stairs, he caught a whiff of something cooking—something that smelled vaguely of home but with a hint of burnt edges. The smell of dinner. He sighed. It would probably be another lukewarm meal, hastily prepared by the cook, Mrs. Turner.

“Your dinner’s in the dining room, James,” Mrs. Turner called from the kitchen. Her voice was warm, despite its gravelly tone—a contrast to her wrinkled, tired face and the hunched posture that made her look older than she likely was.

“Thanks,” he replied curtly, not slowing his pace. He had no intention of sitting in the dining room tonight. He preferred to eat in his room. Besides, there was a new game update he wanted to check out, and he didn’t have time to waste on small talk.

James reached his room at the end of the hall, pushed open the door, and flicked on the light. The room, like the rest of the hotel, had seen better days. The carpet was a dull red, worn thin in the places where countless feet had tread. The bedspread was clean but faded, the pattern almost indistinguishable after years of washing. Still, it was his sanctuary—a place where he could escape from the world and immerse himself in his work, his games, and his solitude.

He set his laptop on the desk, kicked off his shoes, and sat down with a sigh. A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” James called, not taking his eyes off the screen. The door creaked open, and Mrs. Turner entered, carrying a tray with his dinner.

“Hello, I thought you might want this in here,” she said, placing the tray on the small table near the window. “It’s meatloaf tonight. I hope it’s to your liking.”

“Yeah, ok,” James said, barely glancing at the tray. “Just leave it there.”

Mrs. Turner hesitated, looking at him with something like sadness in her eyes. “Is everything alright, James? You’ve been working so hard lately. It’s good to take a break now and then.”

“I’m fine,” James replied, he snapped back. “Just busy.”

Mrs. Turner sighed softly. “Alright. But don’t forget to eat. It’s no good running on empty.”

She left the room quietly, closing the door behind her. James leaned back in his chair, staring at the screen without really seeing it. He turned his attention back to his game.

—

The next morning, James woke to the sound of the vacuum cleaner humming in the hallway. He groaned, burying his face in the pillow. He had stayed up too late, again, and now he was paying for it. Reluctantly, he dragged himself out of bed and got dressed. As he headed downstairs, he found the doorman at his usual post by the front door, looking as grumpy as ever.

“Morning,” James said out of obligation more than anything.

“Morning,” the doorman replied, his voice gruff. “You got any plans for today, or just work, work, work as usual?”

“Work,” James answered, brushing past him.

“Figures,” the old man muttered under his breath. “You might want to consider doing something else once in a while. Life’s more than just a job, you know.”

James paused, turning back to him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” the doorman said, meeting James’s gaze for the first time, “that you’re wasting your life. There’s more out there if you’d bother to look.”

James scoffed. “You don’t know anything about my life mate.”

“I know more than you think,” the doorman shot back. “I see you every day, coming and going.”

James stared at him, bewildered. “What are you talking about?”

Before the doorman could answer, Mrs. Turner appeared at the kitchen door. “That’s enough, Harold,” she said gently, but firmly. “Let the boy be.”

Harold grumbled something unintelligible but stepped back, letting James go. Mrs. Turner gave James a small smile, though there was a hint of sadness in it.

“You have a good day, James,” she said.

James nodded back stiffly, still unsure what to make of the exchange. As he left the hotel, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. But he pushed the thought aside. He had a busy day ahead, and he didn’t have time to dwell on it.

—

The routine was the same. James would come home late, eat in his room, and spend his evenings in solitude. He buried himself in his work, too focused on his life to pay attention to the oddities of this hotel.

One evening, James returned to the hotel to find the lobby unusually quiet. The radio was off, and there was no sign of Mrs. Turner. Harold was at his post, but he didn’t greet James as he usually did. Instead, he simply watched him with that same look—concern, disappointment, maybe even a hint of something else.

James ignored him and headed for the stairs. As he reached the landing, he heard voices coming from the kitchen. He paused, listening.

“…can’t keep doing this, Harold,” Mrs. Turner was saying. “We have to find a way.”

“I’ve tried,” Harold replied, his voice heavy with frustration. “But he’s so wrapped up he doesn’t see what is going on.”

James frowned, confused by the conversation. He quickly dismissed it, assuming they were gossiping about the hotel next door, and continued up to his room. The next morning, the doorman was quiet. He didn’t offer his usual gruff greeting, just a nod as James left for work. 

—

James returned later than usual one day, his mind still on the project he had been working on. The lobby was dark, only a dim lamp casting a soft glow over the tired furniture. That’s odd, the doorman wasn’t at his post.

“Where’s Harold?” James mumbled to himself, heading for the stairs. As he reached the landing, Mrs. Turner appeared at the top, her face pale and drawn.

“James,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I need to talk to you.”

James stopped in his tracks. “What is it?”

“It’s… Harold,” she said, her voice breaking. “He passed away this afternoon. I tried calling you at work, but…”

James froze, the words not registering at first. “Passed away? What… What do you mean?”

“He had a heart attack,” Mrs. Turner said, tears welling in her eyes. “He’s gone, James.”

For a moment, James could only stare at her, his mind struggling to process what she was saying. Gone? The grumpy doorman who had been there every day, always opening the door, always watching him with those sad eyes? 

Suddenly, the reality of his situation hit him like a ton of bricks. The grumpy old doorman, the cook who cared too much. They were his parents. His only family. 

And he had treated them like they were nothing more than hotel staff, people paid to serve him, to cater to his whims. All the missed dinners, the cold interactions, the dismissive attitude—he had wasted precious time, time that he could never get back.

He felt a deep sense of loss and regret, a pain that cut deeper than he ever thought possible. His father was gone, and he had wasted the last months of his life locked away in his room, too absorbed in his work to notice the people who mattered most.

As he sat in his room that night, surrounded by the things that once gave him comfort, he felt a profound sense of emptiness. The home he had treated like a hotel, the family he had taken for granted—it was all slipping away. And when his mother was gone, he would be left with nothing but the hollow shell of a life he had built, too late to make amends.

James knew that he had no one to blame but himself. And as he stared at the dark screen of his laptop, he wondered if he would ever be able to forgive himself for all the time he had lost.