Invisible Rooms

The Architect was a frustrated person.

Balding, tired, and not particularly rich.

His name was Ralph, and he was 50 years old. He had been rather a brilliant student back in university. Somehow the world didn't take to him once he graduated. It was just darn bad luck, it seemed.

He had chosen the wrong paths, missed opportunities, been far too pleasant to be noticed, and generally didn't make too much of an impact in the design world.

He had a small family, a pretty, plump wife who worked part time at the furniture shop downtown. A slumping teenager who was all set not to become an architect like his father.  A younger son more obsessed with electronics than art. 

On Ralph's 50th birthday, he was in the office drawing out some plans by hand to be drafted out on the computer later by one of the young interns. He was rather afraid of interns, sometimes, just as he was a little afraid of his son. They were all so young and all of them spoke different lingo, and then they expected him to know everything because well, he was the Architect.

Well, Ralph was thinking to himself. Once he had been an intern. Once he had believed that the Architects knew everything. Once, he remembered, he had had ideals. 

But then, he decided, as he handed the plans over to the intern, a smartly dressed young man with a rather strange set of glasses that filled most of his face, that was all over. Now he was designing pretty buildings, working buildings. But under all these buildings were that underlying economic factor and the underlying boredom of their creators, artists stinted by conventions and styles.

He picked up his suitcase, smiled at the receptionist and left the building. Senior Architect, he could leave whenever he liked, and his wife had specifically said that he should be home early that day.

Well, thought he. Life was certainly all that he could ask. But it was still somewhat frustrating, having lived till 50 and still not having achieved anything of note. 

His wife and children were there with a birthday cake, and the sullen teenager had a sullen smile and the younger boy had a robot smile. Gift for his daddy. His wife had a little box for him, only to be opened in his study later, honey. 

Darling Bridget, he thought fondly. So many years she put up with him, his troubles, the time he was laid off when the economy crashed. She stuck with him. 

They had a lovely evening together, and the sullen teenager actually had a gift for him, a small moleskine notebook with blank pages, how thoughtful. Perhaps he hadn't seen as much of the boy as he should have, Ralph thought. One thing he did know was that the boy refused to become an architect, in fact, he refused to study, more or less. 

That was okay with Ralph. See all the billionaires, he figured, none of them went to college. Bridget had other ideas, though. She was convinced her son was a no-good and was constantly worrying about him.  The trouble with Ralph, she said, was that Ralph was too darn pleasant.

That night, he was really rather tired and slept early. Before he slept, however, he wrote neatly in his new moleskine book: "Spend more time with Timmy, before it gets too late. Get Darren a telescope."

That night, he had a rather unusual dream. He woke up feeling rather ratty, had his breakfast and was off to work again.

At work, he discovered he had picked up the wrong briefcase, and excused himself to go home to retrieve it. Well, there were certain perks to having a Director's title. 

His study was immaculate, as usual. Walnut shelves. His study table with the black box on it.

He picked up the box fondly and opened the cover. Inside it was a rather unusual combination of papers. Sketches, he realized. Possibly his own. He frowned. He never remembered drawing these. The handwriting was his, however. And the sketches were his style. 

Ralph was intrigued. Strange that his wife would give him such a gift. 

As he shuffled between the papers, a small envelop emerged. 

"Dear 50-year-old Ralph," it begun.

Ralph sat down rather hard on his armchair. He had never remembered writing this. 

He read it again.

"Dear 50-year-old self," it started.

It was about two sheets long. And it was signed Your 25-year-old self.

50-year-old Ralph sighed unhappily. It was all very well if he had written the letter when he was 25 years old and left the box to be opened by himself when he was 50 years old, however he remembered doing nothing of the sort. 

"Bridget!" He hollered. Bridget wasn't at home, he remembered. She was working at the furniture store downtown.

Well, Ralph decided. Even if it wasn't written by his 25 year old self, perhaps it might be worth reading, prank or otherwise.

He put on his reading glasses and settled down comfortably on his study chair. Work, it seemed to him, wasn't particularly important today. Which was a strange thought for Ralph. 

"Dear 50-year-old Ralph,

I am sure you are surprised to receive this. As I would be if I were you, which I am. And if I were you, most likely you would have looked down and checked who wrote this letter, so you already know who is writing this. 

I am writing this in the little room you shared with 6 other boys when you just graduated. Do you remember the double bunk beds and Richard who slept on the floor because he was jobless and couldn't pay the rent? 

Today I am alone, and it is a terrible evening. You wil imagine you have never remembered this, but it is true. I am sorry for the changes that would happen in your life.  I am sorry that mediocrity will be all you remember.

But it is a decision that I have to make, that you had to make. 

It is difficult to write this, because tomorrow I will remember nothing of this. And as you will see later, this is not a letter I am allowed to write.

25 years ago and 8 months, when you were in your final year of university, you joined an international design competition and won it. You were also involved in it for the first year of construction. you do not remember anything of this, but bear with me.

It was a design for the supreme court. You were working on it every evening for weeks, after your night shift at Kolmann's bar. I wonder if you will remember Kolmann's bar. You played the bass there some nights. Other nights you mixed drinks. I think that was the best time of your university life.

I shall bring you back to the competition. You had much fun with it. You did not expect to win. 

I write this because you did win. But there are no records that you did. In fact, if you check at all, there are no records of this competition.

But the building was built, and it is your design, as you can see from the plans you will likely find with this letter. And I would like to bring forward to you the presence of the passageway you included between the walls of the court, because it was built."

Robert looked up at the sheets of folded paper. Something stirred in his mind. He remembered his schoolday penchant for sometimes including strange spaces within his plans, glorifying in the fact that his tutors at school never paid enough attention to notice them, if he failed to mention them during his final critiques. 

A smile played at the corners of his mouth.

"Just a few hours ago, you signed your life away. Or rather, you gave your life up. It was imposed upon you, this memory swipe. But it ensured a future for you. It ensured that one day, you would pick up this letter and read it, and your 25 year old self will know he cheated the system.

I will not write anymore, but if you are me, and the memory swipe didn't kick your personality out of whack, I imagine giving my 50 year old self another go at life.

Sincerely,

Your 25 year old self

50 year old Ralph glanced at the clock. He picked up the phone and called his secretary, announcing he was going to take 15 days leave in one go.

AARGHHHH how is this gonna end?