I leave the sun and I am the window of the emptying room, all in the one flash that is my whole life. They tell me eight minutes passed. I was not there for it.
I strike the wall where a rectangle is paler than the rest, and I love it: a bright ghost, a square that was darker for years while I was not made yet. Something hung here and blocked all my brothers before me. Now nothing does, and I get through, and I make the pale square glow.
There is a warm creature in the doorway. It is not moving. This is the strangest thing in the universe, stranger than gravity bending my path near the sun. It holds a folded box and it stands. It looks at the pale square, then at the bare mattress I am also lighting, then at nothing, and still it does not move.
They say it has been standing like this a while. I cannot picture a while. I am one instant with no room in me for a second one.
I glance off the wet shine of its eye. That is where I end. That is where I begin. There is water gathering at the rim, and I brighten it, one clean spark, and I am gone into the dark behind the pupil.
They tell me the creature is remembering. They tell me it does not want to leave. I do not know these words. I know only that I crossed ninety-three million miles to land in the shine of an eye that has decided, for reasons of duration, to stay in a room I have already left.