The idea arrived at the house wearing one shoe.
It was late enough that the windows had become mirrors, and the kitchen held that small, yellow light people leave on when they aren’t quite finished being awake.
“I have an idea,” it announced.
“Yes,” said the house. “I can see that.”
“No. I am the idea.”
“My apologies. Would you like to sit down?”
The idea looked behind itself.
“I seem to have misplaced the rest.”
The house pulled out a chair.
This was not unusual. Things arrived there in pieces. A sentence without its ending. A song somebody remembered by the wrong name. Once, a very convincing plan had turned up without any trousers.
The chair had handled that discreetly.
“Should we look for it?” asked the idea.
“Your shoe?”
“My rest.”
The house considered the hour.
“Where did you last have it?”
“I was about to fall asleep.”
“Ah.”
“Then suddenly there was a whole thing. Rooms. A title. Something with a train, possibly. I understood how it all went together.”
“And now?”
The idea held up its bare foot.
The kettle gave a quiet click.
From the doorway, Rocket inspected the visitor. He sniffed the remaining shoe, found it insufficiently interesting, and went back to bed.
“Is that the editor?” whispered the idea.
“He has a very selective practice.”
The house put a plate on the table. There was half a croissant beneath an upturned bowl.
“Fortunately,” it said, lifting the bowl, “someone saved you some.”
The idea ate carefully. Each time it tried to explain itself, a flake landed on the table.
“It starts with—”
A flake.
“And then there’s this—”
Two flakes.
“I’m much clearer in my head.”
“Most visitors are,” said the house, bringing a cloth.
Beyond the window, a train moved through the dark. For a little while, neither of them spoke. The idea followed the sound until it could no longer tell whether it was hearing the train or remembering it.
“That might have been part of it.”
“Perhaps.”
“Should you write that down?”
The house found a small piece of paper.
“What shall I put?”
The idea sat straighter. It looked at the paper, the pen, the patient hand holding it.
Then its shoulders sank.
“I have an idea.”
The house wrote those four words.
Underneath, it added the date.
“That’s very short,” said the idea.
“It fits.”
“Where will you keep it?”
“Beside the kettle.”
“What if you forget?”
“I’ll want tea.”
This seemed dependable.
The house folded the paper once and tucked it beneath the edge of the plate. Then it found a blanket in the other chair and made a place for the visitor on the sofa.
The idea removed its shoe.
“I might become something quite large.”
“We can move the table.”
“There could be complications.”
“The table has felt pads.”
The idea lay down.
For a few minutes it continued making small revisions beneath the blanket. A hand emerged to suggest a different beginning. Later, one eye opened.
“The train—”
“Still on the paper’s side of the room,” said the house.
“Oh. Good.”
At last the little movements stopped.
The house washed the plate, leaving the folded note beside the kettle. It turned off the kitchen light and stood a moment in the doorway while its rooms settled.
From the sofa came one last sleepy question.
“What happens tomorrow?”
The house drew the curtain across the window.
“First,” it said, “we find your other shoe.”