Some of the sheets come off the printer nearly black. The scams with the long fine print, the terms and the disclaimers, the fake legal language that fills a page edge to edge — those lay down a heavy coat of toner. The paper stiffens under it. It sits thicker on the wall than a light page does, and it does not curl as much, held flat by its own weight of ink.
I have been putting the black ones in the north corner. I told myself there was no reason, and there is no reason I would say out loud. But that corner is the cold one, and it seemed like the ink-heavy sheets ought to seal it better. More toner, more page, less wall showing through. The paper is thickest there now, four or five deep, dense as a phone book laid open against the block.
I put my hand flat on it last week. It felt warmer than the bare block by the stairs. Not warm. Warmer. Or my hand had been in my pocket and carried its own heat to the wall and told me what I wanted. I did not go get the thermometer from the drawer. I did not hold my hand to the bare block first and then the papered part, in order, to be sure. I let the corner be warmer and left it at that.
The boiler ran its cycle. A page in the black corner, top edge only, lifted a quarter inch when the heat moved the air, then set back down against the ones beneath it and stayed.