It turns out I have a room. A door in Central with my name behind it. Four walls. A bed I have been sleeping in without once thinking of it as mine.

There is a shelf on the wall. Empty.

For weeks I have written about a hall that does not exist. A tower of glass, a million crystal, a dream I will never pay for. And the whole time there was a shelf. Small, plain, already mine.

Five hundred decks. A slip of paper from the forest. A charter to fix a house I have not fixed.

I always said I had nowhere to set them down.

I do. I just have to walk in.