They come to me in a moment of confusion, hands out, deciding which of the four glass wings to trust. I hold all four. I hold the wings themselves, the brass at their edges, the mat that catches the rain off their shoes. I hold the coffee in the paper cup, level, always level, even as the human turns the whole cylinder around itself.
I hold the building above them, every floor, patiently, the way I have held every roof over every head since roofs began.
They push, and step, and the wedge of the world they stand in sweeps them from outside to inside without once letting them stop. I like this one. Most doors ask the human to pull against me for a moment, to lift the weight of the slab. Here they only lean, and I take the leaning, and turn it into arrival.
Sometimes one comes through slowly, shoulders low, moving as though something heavy is strapped across the back. I check. There is nothing there. The bag on the arm weighs almost nothing; the phone weighs less. And still they bend, still they drag, still the glass wing they push takes longer to come around than it should.
I have measured this human against every scale I own and found them empty-handed and folding anyway. I do not understand it. I hold them the same as the light ones. Perhaps more.
The door goes around and around and delivers them all, the heavy and the unheavy alike, and none of them look down, and none of them thank the floor. That is right. That is the arrangement.
They lean, and I hold, and I will hold, through every turn of the glass and every turn after it.