The stamp went down.

Click.

It was a small sound.

Hard.

Final.

Elias held his breath.

The ink was black.

The paper was white.

The mark was red.

He looked at his hands.

They shook.

He put them on the desk.

Wood was cold.

Outside, the rain hit the glass.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

A rhythm.

Like a clock.

Or a heart.

He was a stamper.

That was his job.

He had done it for forty years.

His father had done it.

His grandfather had done it.

They made seals.

Tiny ones.

For documents.

For letters.

For lives.

Elias looked at the seal.

It was his name.

ELIAS HOLLOWAY.

He had carved it himself.

Years ago.

When he was young.

When he thought he would last forever.

Now the wood was cracked.

The edges were worn.

The letters were blurred.

Time had eaten it.

Bit by bit.

Year by year.

He felt tired.

So tired.

The man across the desk leaned forward.

He was new.

Young.

Clean.

He wore a suit.

It fit well.

His shoes shone.

He looked at Elias.

He did not blink.

"Mr. Holloway."

The voice was flat.

Dry.

Like dust.

"Yes."

Elias said.

His voice was a whisper.

A dry leaf.

Scraping on stone.

"Your application."

The man slid a paper over.

It was thick.

Cream-colored.

Heavy.

Elias looked at it.

He did not read.

He knew what it said.

He had known for days.

The town knew.

The shop knew.

The air knew.

"You are denied."

The man said.

He did not say why.

He did not need to.

The rules were the rules.

The age was the age.

Sixty-five.

The line was the line.

Cross it, and you fell.

Fell into the dark.

Fell into the silence.

Elias nodded.

Slowly.

His neck creaked.

"Thank you."

He said.

The word tasted like ash.

The man smiled.

It was a small smile.

Thin.

Like a cut.

"Standard procedure."

He said.

"Please clear your desk."

He stood up.

He buttoned his jacket.

He looked at the window.

The rain was heavier now.

Streaks of gray.

On the glass.

Elias stayed seated.

He looked at his hands.

They were still.

Now.

No shaking.

Just still.

Dead.

He looked at the seal.

The wooden block.

It sat in the center of the desk.

A small rectangle.

Brown.

Cracked.

It was his mirror.

His face.

His life.

Worn down.

Used up.

He reached for it.

His fingers touched the wood.

It was smooth.

Worn smooth by touch.

By time.

By the friction of years.

He picked it up.

It was light.

So light.

He held it in his palm.

He looked at the man.

The man was packing his bag.

A leather case.

Black.

Shiny.

He did not look back.

He did not care.

To him, Elias was a number.

A form.

A mistake.

To be corrected.

To be removed.

Elias put the seal in his pocket.

He stood up.

His knees popped.

He walked to the door.

He opened it.

The hallway was empty.

The lights were dim.

Yellow.

Sickly.

He walked out.

He walked down the stairs.

Step by step.

Each one a weight.

Each one a loss.

He walked into the street.

The rain was cold.

It hit his face.

He did not close his eyes.

He walked to his shop.

It was two blocks away.

Small.

Narrow.

The sign hung above.

HOLLOWAY & SONS.

The 'Sons' was faded.

His son had left.

Years ago.

He had gone to the city.

He had gotten a degree.

He had gotten a job.

He had forgotten.

He had forgotten the smell of the ink.

The smell of the wood.

The smell of the rain.

He had forgotten the weight.

The shop door was locked.

He fumbled for his key.

The metal was cold.

It bit into his fingers.

He turned it.

The lock clicked.

He pushed the door open.

The bell above the door jingled.

A high, thin sound.

It hung in the air.

Then it stopped.

Silence.

The shop was dark.

Dust motes floated in the light.

From the window.

Gray light.

Soft.

Indifferent.

Elias walked to his bench.

He sat down.

The wood creaked.

He took the seal out of his pocket.

He put it on the bench.

He looked at it.

The letters.

ELIAS HOLLOWAY.

They were blurred.

The 'A' was gone.

The 'L' was thin.

The 'Y' was broken.

Time had done it.

Not the ink.

Not the paper.

Time.

Time ate everything.

It ate the wood.

It ate the stone.

It ate the bone.

It ate the name.

He thought of his father.

He had sat in this chair.

He had held this seal.

He had said the same thing.

"Time eats."

He had smiled.

Then.

A sad smile.

A knowing smile.

"I know, Dad."

Elias had said.

He had not understood.

Not then.

He understood now.

He looked at the seal.

He picked it up.

He held it over the trash can.

A metal bin.

Rusty.

Empty.

He let go.

The seal fell.

It hit the bottom.

Clack.

A small sound.

Like a bone breaking.

Elias watched it land.

He watched it sit.

There.

In the dark.

In the rust.

He felt nothing.

No anger.

No sadness.

Just emptiness.

A hollow space.

Where his name had been.

He stood up.

He walked to the window.

He looked out.

The rain was stopping.

The clouds were breaking.

Gray light was turning.

To white.

To cold.

To clear.

People were walking.

Under umbrellas.

Black.

Blue.

Red.

They moved.

Fast.

Purposeful.

They did not look up.

They did not look down.

They just moved.

Toward something.

Away from something.

Elias looked at his hands.

They were clean.

Free.

Empty.

He went to the back of the shop.

There was a shelf.

Wood.

Old.

It held the tools.

Knives.

Files.

Polish.

He picked up a knife.

Small.

Sharp.

The blade was dull.

He ran his thumb over it.

No cut.

No blood.

Just skin.

Dry.

Thick.

He put the knife down.

He looked at the wall.

There was a picture.

Old.

Framed.

It showed the town.

Years ago.

The buildings were taller.

The people were younger.

The sky was blue.

Bright.

Alive.

He looked at it for a long time.

Then he turned.

He walked to the door.

He opened it.

The bell jingled.

Again.

High.

Thin.

He stepped out.

He did not look back.

He walked into the street.

The air was cold.

Sharp.

Clean.

He breathed it in.

Deep.

Full.

It filled his lungs.

It filled his chest.

It filled the hole.

Where the name had been.

He walked.

Step by step.

The town was quiet.

The shops were closing.

The lights were going out.

One by one.

The darkness was coming.

Soft.

Gentle.

Kind.

It covered the street.

It covered the rain.

It covered the people.

It covered Elias.

He was small.

Just a man.

In a coat.

Walking.

Into the dark.

He did not know where he was going.

He did not know who he was.

He did not know if he mattered.

It did not matter.

The dark was there.

It was waiting.

It was patient.

It would hold him.

It would keep him.

It would let him rest.

He walked on.

The street was empty.

The rain was gone.

The world was still.

He was still.

He was free.

The name was gone.

The weight was gone.

The pain was gone.

He was nothing.

And that was enough.

He walked into the night.

The night took him.

Gently.

Softly.

Like a hand.

On a cheek.

Like a kiss.

On the lips.

Like a whisper.

In the ear.

Sleep.

He slept.

He was gone.

The town slept.

The rain slept.

The dark slept.

And the seal.

In the bin.

In the shop.

In the dark.

It waited.

For the garbage truck.

For the morning.

For the end.

It would be gone.

Completely.

Finally.

Free.

Like him.

The street was empty.

The light was out.

The story was over.

The name was gone.

The man was gone.

The silence.

Was all.