Margins are doing the work
I keep giving the text less room and then wondering why it feels cheap.
We found the rollers in the basement, beneath wet bands of green, red, orange, and blue. The landlord said no one had been down there since the flood. Each strip ended at a narrow, spotless margin. I touched the red paint. Three knocks sounded inside the wall.
Mara laughed, then the handles turned by themselves. The rollers crossed the floor, leaving blue tracks that stopped at the sealed furnace door. We followed, though the knocking had moved behind us and kept pace. Around the door, the white margins tightened into thin lines around a shape pressing from within.
The rollers lifted. Their wet heads reached for us as a voice behind the door whispered our names—in the landlord’s voice. We fled upstairs. By morning, every wall was painted. The margins were doing the work; from each one came a faint, patient scratching.
