…f years turning the wood into something else. Every morning I wipe it away, every night it returns. There’s a rhythm to this, a quiet violence in the erasure of time’s fingerprints, the sound of my breath too loud in the silence. I can hear the cracks forming, spiderwebbing through the grains, stretching out like hands. I tell myself it’s nothing, just the house settling. But it feels like something’s breaking, the floor beneath me shifting ever so slightly under the weight of what I can’t say.