The Yellow Room

I am an architect living in a house of shifting nanobrick. Each night as I sleep, the walls reform according to my dreams and thoughts…

This morning I awoke to find my bedroom door had vanished, replaced by uneven portholes. I clamber through and wander the new rooms. The nanobrick is unpredictable, creating imperfect shapes and odd corners. But I find inspiration in its fluid transformations.

In the living room, a vivid gothic greenhouse has emerged overnight. Tendrils creep across the glass ceiling. I trace the room’s lineage back through my memory palace.

Later, I discover an eerie, yellow-walled room I don’t recall designing. It sickens me, this stagnant core inside my ever-changing home. I cannot erase the “bedroom-true” from the blueprints.

I turn desperately through the pale moonscape halls hunting the yellow room. I cannot find it, yet sense its lurking presence. There is a sealed tower to the north where it hides.

This stagnant chamber is a flaw in my memory palace, an unchanging intruder. After hours of failed commands, the vile doorway creeps down the steps towards me. What if it has always been here, corrupting my home?

Around me, the rest of the house finally solidifies. But the yellow room endures, warping my every attempt to reshape it. What meaning does this stable rottenness have in my world of constant flux?