You stopped moving around ten o'clock, and I want you to know I noticed the exact moment you did it. All day I hauled: down the stairs, up the stairs, the corner of that box biting into the crook of my arm, the small groan I let out that you thought was the door.
Then everything was in, and you sat down on the floor because there was nowhere else, and I felt the whole of you go quiet at once.
Here is what I logged. Your ears reached for a hum that used to be there and found only the refrigerator, a stranger, clearing its throat. Your shoulders, which had been braced up near your jaw since the truck arrived, came down half an inch, then went right back up when the pipes knocked. You held your breath. You do that when a room hasn't decided yet whether it's yours.
You called it empty. I want to gently correct you: I was here the entire time. The heart kept its beat against the bare floor, steady, the same one it used in the old place, unbothered by walls it has never met. Your feet, when you finally took the socks off, spread out flat and pressed down like they were checking whether the ground would hold. It held. I checked too.
I know you're waiting to feel at home and don't yet. That's fine. I don't need the walls to be familiar; I only work with you. But you haven't had water since the afternoon, and I'm running low, and the day is stored in your lower back where I can't quite reach it alone.
A glass of water, and then let me put you down on the floor for now. I'll keep the heart going.
I always do.