Somewhere in the small bright box, a voice is still moving air.
I have gone a long way to reach this room, and I want you to understand the distances. Between me and my nearest anything, count out the empty until your arm gives up: a light-year, then a thousand more, then a stretch so wide it has never once been crossed by warmth.
I hold all of that. It is my whole estate. Nothing arriving, nothing leaving, no smell because there is nothing to smell, no sound because there is no air to carry it.
And here, in your hand, a voice.
Think of what that requires. A throat once pushed against air, and the air pushed back, and the pushing made a shape, and the shape was caught and kept in the bright box, and now it happens again, warm and near, close enough that you press it to the side of your head.
The sound of another heart's owner, within an inch of your own skull. In my accounting this is not rare. This is impossible. This is every lottery ever drawn, all at once, in a kitchen.
So I do not follow what your body is doing. The salt water. The way you sit down on the floor. The hand over the mouth as if to keep something in. By my math you are holding a whole person in your palm, a whole warm noise of one, and there is no distance between you at all, none, you are touching.
You call this alone.
From where I keep my endless empty, I would give every mile I own to be so crowded. You are standing inside the jackpot.
Somebody, somewhere, is still saying your name into the air.