iii.
the stair begins where you expected the next room. there is no announcement. the floor simply lowers itself, one step, and then another, and the building gives off the small interior gravity of a place that is about to be deeper than it was a moment ago.
you put your hand on the bannister. it is warm from no one. the wood has been touched by people whose names the wood does not remember; you join that list without ceremony. you are simply one more palm in a long sequence of palms.
after the seventh step, the building forgets how tall it is. this is something the building does as a courtesy, so that the descent does not feel measurable. you are no longer aware of which floor you began on. you are aware only of the next step, and the small reassurance of the step after it.
somewhere above, where you were, a door has closed. it does not bother you. you did not need it to stay open. the procession is the kind of walk that is more easily done with one door fewer behind you.
the light dims by degrees so gentle that you only notice you are in dimness by trying to see your own hand. your hand is still there. it is a quieter version of itself. a deeper version.
the stair levels out. you have not, you realise, been counting; that was the point. the next room is not below you any more — it is simply at the bottom of the descent, the way a thought is at the bottom of a long pause. you stand still for a moment to let the building catch up with itself.