You carried the last box in yourself, set it on the floor, and did not open it. Good. I have been waiting all day for the way the room echoed when you called out to someone who was not there anymore, just to hear what the walls would do. I collected that echo.
I collect the pale rectangle on the wall where a picture used to hang in a different apartment, the ghost of paint, and I will hang whole windows there tonight, windows that look onto the beach you visited when you were nine.
The sleeping bag on the bare floor will be a raft. You will not find this odd. The single lamp you plugged in, the one that made the empty room look emptier, will drift up and become a small private moon, and it will follow you room to room the way you wished a person would.
You lay there tonight listing everything the place did not have: no curtains, no table, nobody's coat over the chair, no chair. I noticed you were not really counting objects. You were counting the quiet. So I will fill it, but gently. The refrigerator's hum will turn out to be someone humming in the next room, someone who has always lived here, who is glad you came.
The boxes will unpack themselves into a house you already know by heart, and just before you understand that none of this is real, I will let you feel, fully, unmistakably, that you are home.
Then the light will come through the actual window, the one without curtains, and it will take me apart the way it takes apart everything I make. You will wake on the floor and remember almost none of this. That is all right. I already left the feeling in you.
Look for it around noon.