Before dawn in Felt Presence, a draught slipped beneath the door and shivered all the price tags.

The skeletons knitted it a scarf from a length of moss-green wool.

“Hold still,” they said.

“I’m trying,” said the draught.

They tied the scarf loosely around nothing. It hovered above the floor, with its tassels pointing in opposite directions.

From beneath his weighted blanket, the ghost watched it pass.

“Nice weather for it,” he murmured.

The draught went out through the keyhole.

A moment later, it came back.

It had forgotten its other end.