She had a voice like a breeze and footsteps no one ever heard coming.
Most people in Room 304 had a presence. Observer had silence. Spark had sound. Architect had stillness. Guardian had warmth. But The Mediator? She was something else entirely. You could forget she was there until you realized how many conversations she gently steered away from disaster.
She never interrupted.
She asked questions.
And somehow, people answered.
Not because she was loud or persuasive. But because something about her eyes made you feel like your words would be safe. Like your secrets weren't burdens but stories she wanted to understand.
She sat on the floor a lot.
Legs crossed, mug in hand, scribbling half-thoughts into a worn brown notebook she never let anyone read. The others joked that it was either a secret diary or a hit list.
She laughed both times.
Her room was filled with little plants. Not big, bold ones but vines that crawled up the corners of her shelf, succulents that leaned toward the desk lamp. She talked to them sometimes. Not because she believed they listened. But because it felt good to say things out loud where no one would judge.
She was kind, but not soft. That's what people got wrong about her. Her compassion wasn't passive. It had edges. She'd call you out if you were being selfish, just not in public. She'd sit next to you, offer a cookie, and say something like, "I don't think that was very fair, do you?"
Hard to argue with someone who genuinely wanted to hear your answer.
Her childhood had been quiet. Loving. But... forgettable.
She wasn't the star or the rebel or the genius.
She was the peacemaker. The glue. The one who noticed when Dad's tone changed or when Mom's laughter wasn't as light.
In high school, she tried being louder. Once.
She joined drama club. Made it to callbacks. Froze.
Afterward, she helped paint the set. Every show.
In college, she learned to stop fighting her nature.
She didn't need a spotlight. She just wanted connection.
Room 304 was noisy, dramatic, unpredictable, but it worked. And she was part of the reason why.
She reminded the others of birthdays.
She paired mismatched socks on laundry day.
She mediated an epic standoff between Spark and Architect over who left glitter on the router.
("It was clearly Spark."
"Clearly.")
She played acoustic guitar sometimes. Quietly. Never full songs, just snippets.
She fell in love too easily.
But never told them.
Once, she liked someone in the dorm. Smart. Witty. Completely oblivious.
She wrote a poem about it and hid it in the notebook.
Sometimes that was enough.
Tonight, she curled up in her favorite chair, secondhand, a little lumpy, but hers. The others were louder than usual. Someone burned popcorn. Someone else was yelling about fictional betrayal in a video game.
She smiled and took it all in.
And when Guardian looked overwhelmed, she quietly took the tea tray before she could lift it. Said nothing. Just a squeeze of the shoulder.
Observer gave her a rare, approving glance.
Later, as the dorm began to settle and conversations dimmed to giggles and yawns, she headed toward her room.
Then a voice.
"Good night."
She turned. Nodded.
"Night," she whispered back.
Then she stepped inside, pulled out the notebook, and scribbled something new:
Sometimes being unseen means you're free to see everything.
And she smiled.
Another day understood.