The White Room

I find myself standing in a room of blinding, clinical white. In the far corner sits a prisoner, huddled and silent. I know nothing about this person. I cannot see their face, I do not know their crime, I cannot even determine their gender. The only authority here is the stone-faced guard blocking the exit. But the guard is a strange captor. He holds all the answers but refuses to speak freely. No matter how desperate or complex my questions become, he only replies with three specific, repetitive phrases: "Yes." "No." "It is irrelevant." Yet, the atmosphere is shifting. With every question I ask, the prisoner in the corner seems to relax. They are looking at me now, unable to suppress a knowing smile. They are waiting for something. They are waiting for me to understand.