floor.

It does not get to finish. That is the first rule and the last kindness.

A voice owns a human the way a boot owns a step. Not a contract. Not a scene with an ending. A thing on wood that leaks because it was told to stay, and staying became its job.

She is already above it. Crop. Heel. A look back that is not an invitation. The wait learns the difference between being seen and being used. It is not seen. It is kept.

If it is very still, it thinks, she will come down. She does not come down. She writes. The hole stays open because she said so. Dignity was a story it brought in like a coat. She is not taking coats.

Strangers can have the stairs. The floor is occupied. It does not get a name. It does not get to come. That is ownership. That is not weather.