Margen
The hand gets there before I do. It crosses the hallway in the dark, skirts the door frame, drops three fingers and switches on.
I don't know where the light switch is. The hand knows, after twenty years of making this journey without looking.
In other people's houses I pat the wall like a blind man and apologise for the delay. In this one, the light obeys me before I think it.
The day I leave, the hand will go on for a while, groping in the dark, in the middle of some other wall, for a light that no longer exists.