This is not finished

The shadows are long and prominent in the room, but it is barely past midday. The air conditioner is running and the fan is running, and the chains hanging from the fan are rhythmically hitting the glass of the light fixture suspended below the spinning blades.
These are the only sounds in the room.
The gathered darkness and unseasonably cold air in the room would insinuate that the grey light sneaking in through the blinds had been filtered through tempestuous thunderheads and torrential rain. But this is not the case.
Out side the heat is sweltering and the sky is stippled with white clouds, and the birds would be chirping, were they not having their afternoon siestas. The dismal state of this room cannot be blamed on things from without.
This room has a countenance and a soul and a heart, and emitted from these anthropomorphic attributes is a mood heavy enough to shade everything around it, thick enough to obscure the light of anything beyond its ashen walls, and so dense in its ponderous mass, there is a gravity that nothing rises above.
The heart of this room is a woman, and she is sitting on her needlessly tidied bed, listening to the three sounds that create her silence. Her phone is blinking red with the urgency of all the day’s intentionally missed phone calls, and she does not care.