The knock on the door.
You open it wide and invite them in. You offer what you have: coffee, conversation and compassion. Something to eat. Some music. Some stillness. You are weaving memory. And you are making more bricks.
After they leave, you close the door and bolt it because the air in your room is changed, pierced through with something precious that you cannot create alone, and you want to keep it alive and intact.
This is not possible. You breathe it in and out and in and out and finally it is only your own air again. There's a long, frayed moment of nostalgic remembering...
...and you return to yourself and the room as it was and the keepsakes and tools and amusements. And you are as complete and content as before. You make bricks. You rest.
Don't watch the door. Don't will the knock. Bless the door. Bless the knock. Bless the visitation.
All is well.