The hallway knew me by my steps. The table taught me how to sit. I learned which silence meant “keep still” and which one meant to swallow it. No broken glass. No shouted threat. Just that cold that filled the frame. The kind that makes a child go quiet long before it learns the name. The first harm still feels like home. The first cold taught me what home was. I know that room and the sound behind it. I know how wrong can still feel mine. Some houses bruise without a hand. Some love comes in as watchful air. Some doors don’t slam. They just stay shut until you learn what not to share. Some nights went hard. Some days went cold. Some faces turned and called it care. The first harm never needed one shape. It only needed to live there. It shows in how the body waits before a key turns in the door. It shows in how a quiet room still makes the chest prepare for more. The first cold does not stay back there. It changes shape and follows on. And sometimes leaving what was wrong still feels like leaving what was known. The first harm still feels like home. The first cold taught me what home was. I know that room and the sound behind it. I know how wrong can still feel mine. It still feels like home.
