At the end of the garden there was a small room.
It was not particularly beautiful.
The paint had begun to fade around the window, and the wooden floor made a soft sound whenever someone crossed it.
But it was quiet.
There were books there.
A chair.
A small lamp.
And in the afternoon, when the light came through the trees, the whole room seemed to become another world.
Perhaps we all need such a room.
Not necessarily a physical one.
A place within ourselves where the noise cannot quite reach us.
A page.
A piece of music.
A familiar voice.
A morning spent without explanation.
Refuge does not always announce itself.
Sometimes it is simply the place where you can finally breathe.
And sometimes, that is enough.