Thomas Miller's Blog - Posts Tagged "loneliness"
Abandoned Room Discovery
Abandoned Room Discovery
by Thomas Miller
Mandy let out a sigh as she opened the door to the cold, dark room. The air was stale, and the dust that had accumulated over the years of neglect was thick on the walls and furniture. It was apparent to Mandy that no one had been in this room in a long time, if ever.
But she was determined to make this room feel alive again, as the first step in her mission to bring warmth and joy to the man who lived in it.
Mandy started by opening the curtains, letting in the sunlight and fresh air. As the room brightened, the dust started to settle and Mandy could make out the details of the room. It was sparsely decorated and everything seemed to be made from wood, but it was tidy and clean.
Mandy could not help but feel a twinge of sadness as she looked around the room. She knew that the man who lived here kept himself at a distance from the world, never letting anyone close. But Mandy was determined to try and make a change.
She set to work, beginning by wiping down the surfaces of the furniture and vacuuming the floors. As she worked, she could feel the energy in the room shifting. She could sense the change in the air, as if she was truly making a difference.
As she finished up her work, Mandy stepped back to admire her handiwork. The room looked much brighter and more inviting. The dust had been cleared, and the furniture shone with a brand new sparkle.
Mandy smiled to herself, pleased at the transformation she had achieved in the room. She left the room with a sense of satisfaction, knowing that she had done her part to make this room a place of warmth and joy.
But Mandy also had hope that her work would do more than just clean the room — she had hope that her work would be enough to change the heart of the man who lived here. That the transformation she had achieved in the room would be enough to melt the icy walls that he had built around his heart. That in the end, the man's heart would be filled with love and joy — just as the room was now.
by Thomas Miller
Mandy let out a sigh as she opened the door to the cold, dark room. The air was stale, and the dust that had accumulated over the years of neglect was thick on the walls and furniture. It was apparent to Mandy that no one had been in this room in a long time, if ever.
But she was determined to make this room feel alive again, as the first step in her mission to bring warmth and joy to the man who lived in it.
Mandy started by opening the curtains, letting in the sunlight and fresh air. As the room brightened, the dust started to settle and Mandy could make out the details of the room. It was sparsely decorated and everything seemed to be made from wood, but it was tidy and clean.
Mandy could not help but feel a twinge of sadness as she looked around the room. She knew that the man who lived here kept himself at a distance from the world, never letting anyone close. But Mandy was determined to try and make a change.
She set to work, beginning by wiping down the surfaces of the furniture and vacuuming the floors. As she worked, she could feel the energy in the room shifting. She could sense the change in the air, as if she was truly making a difference.
As she finished up her work, Mandy stepped back to admire her handiwork. The room looked much brighter and more inviting. The dust had been cleared, and the furniture shone with a brand new sparkle.
Mandy smiled to herself, pleased at the transformation she had achieved in the room. She left the room with a sense of satisfaction, knowing that she had done her part to make this room a place of warmth and joy.
But Mandy also had hope that her work would do more than just clean the room — she had hope that her work would be enough to change the heart of the man who lived here. That the transformation she had achieved in the room would be enough to melt the icy walls that he had built around his heart. That in the end, the man's heart would be filled with love and joy — just as the room was now.
“The Last Breath of Jacob Masterson”
“The Last Breath of Jacob Masterson”
From the Pen of Thomas Miller
In the hospice that forgot his name,
Jacob Masterson waited for the end.
No flowers, no hymns, no whisper of care—
just the ticking of machines that mocked
the rhythm of a dying heart.
He once loved, though none recalled her face.
She left no note, no scent, no sigh.
And he—too proud, too broken—
never said goodbye, believing
there’d be time.
There never is.
His bed sheets stuck to fevered skin,
his mouth a cave of salt and blood.
The nurses passed, eyes turned to charts—
not to him.
When he begged for mercy,
the morphine bag hung silent,
half-empty, unkind.
Inside him, organs tore like paper.
A wet crack, a ripping flood—
his stomach folding in on itself,
his bowels twisting, his veins
bursting like overripe fruit.
He screamed, but only the walls
answered,
peeling in quiet applause.
The room stank of rust and ruin.
He reached for God,
but found only
the buzzing of a fluorescent light
that would not die before he did.
And when it was done—
when Jacob Masterson fell still—
the world did not pause.
The clock kept time.
The machines kept their cruel hum.
Later, two faces came,
the ones who’d smiled false love
for his will and worn-down home.
They stood over his grave
in the rain,
laughed like children
who’d stolen candy from a corpse,
and when the night deepened,
they made love on the mound—
bodies pressed in mockery
of the man beneath.
And the earth did not cry.
The moon did not turn away.
Only the worms knew
how deep his sorrow went,
how much of him still bled
beneath their feet.
There was no goodbye.
There never is.
From the Pen of Thomas Miller
In the hospice that forgot his name,
Jacob Masterson waited for the end.
No flowers, no hymns, no whisper of care—
just the ticking of machines that mocked
the rhythm of a dying heart.
He once loved, though none recalled her face.
She left no note, no scent, no sigh.
And he—too proud, too broken—
never said goodbye, believing
there’d be time.
There never is.
His bed sheets stuck to fevered skin,
his mouth a cave of salt and blood.
The nurses passed, eyes turned to charts—
not to him.
When he begged for mercy,
the morphine bag hung silent,
half-empty, unkind.
Inside him, organs tore like paper.
A wet crack, a ripping flood—
his stomach folding in on itself,
his bowels twisting, his veins
bursting like overripe fruit.
He screamed, but only the walls
answered,
peeling in quiet applause.
The room stank of rust and ruin.
He reached for God,
but found only
the buzzing of a fluorescent light
that would not die before he did.
And when it was done—
when Jacob Masterson fell still—
the world did not pause.
The clock kept time.
The machines kept their cruel hum.
Later, two faces came,
the ones who’d smiled false love
for his will and worn-down home.
They stood over his grave
in the rain,
laughed like children
who’d stolen candy from a corpse,
and when the night deepened,
they made love on the mound—
bodies pressed in mockery
of the man beneath.
And the earth did not cry.
The moon did not turn away.
Only the worms knew
how deep his sorrow went,
how much of him still bled
beneath their feet.
There was no goodbye.
There never is.
“The Black Veins of Winter”
“The Black Veins of Winter”
By Thomas Miller
London slept beneath a cough of soot,
the year of seventeen-forty-three,
when fever walked the cobblestone lanes
in silence thick as candle smoke.
He was a scholar once—ink-fingered, proud,
his books stacked high as gravestones.
But now his breath came shallow, thin,
a rattle echoing through cracked ribs.
The plague was not swift—it lingered,
like a lover who would not leave.
He felt it bloom within his chest,
a black rose bursting petal by petal,
until the taste of iron filled his mouth.
Blood spilled slow and sacred
down his chin, his collar,
onto the Bible he’d pressed to his heart.
Each drop a confession—
each gasp a hymn to no one listening.
Outside, the church bells tolled for others,
but none for him.
His neighbors sealed their doors,
the rats took communion in the alleys,
and the air itself became a sermon of decay.
He whispered once—to no one—
“Tell her I waited.”
Then the blood came faster,
flooding his lungs like the Thames at spring,
and his body shuddered in holy ruin.
When dawn crept through the frost,
they found him upright in his chair,
eyes open, as if still reciting
the last verse of his life.
No one spoke his name,
but the room remembered.
The candle guttered out,
and silence became his grave.
By Thomas Miller
London slept beneath a cough of soot,
the year of seventeen-forty-three,
when fever walked the cobblestone lanes
in silence thick as candle smoke.
He was a scholar once—ink-fingered, proud,
his books stacked high as gravestones.
But now his breath came shallow, thin,
a rattle echoing through cracked ribs.
The plague was not swift—it lingered,
like a lover who would not leave.
He felt it bloom within his chest,
a black rose bursting petal by petal,
until the taste of iron filled his mouth.
Blood spilled slow and sacred
down his chin, his collar,
onto the Bible he’d pressed to his heart.
Each drop a confession—
each gasp a hymn to no one listening.
Outside, the church bells tolled for others,
but none for him.
His neighbors sealed their doors,
the rats took communion in the alleys,
and the air itself became a sermon of decay.
He whispered once—to no one—
“Tell her I waited.”
Then the blood came faster,
flooding his lungs like the Thames at spring,
and his body shuddered in holy ruin.
When dawn crept through the frost,
they found him upright in his chair,
eyes open, as if still reciting
the last verse of his life.
No one spoke his name,
but the room remembered.
The candle guttered out,
and silence became his grave.
