Margaret woke with the taste of iron in her mouth.

The room was dark. The window was open. A draft slipped through the gap, cold and sharp, carrying the scent of wet stone. She sat up. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She looked at her hands. They were shaking.

"Are you awake?"

The voice came from the doorway. It was her father. Thomas stood there. He wore his nightshirt. It was white. It looked dirty. His eyes were wide.

"I dreamt you were dead," he said.

Margaret looked at him. She felt a strange calm.

"I am not dead," she said.

"You will be," he said. "Soon. The water is rising. It has already taken the cellar. It has taken the kitchen. It is coming for the beds."

Margaret looked at the window. The rain was falling hard. It beat against the glass like fists.

"Go back to sleep, Thomas," she said. "It is just a dream."

"Listen to the house," he said. "It is crying."

She listened. She heard the wood creak. She heard the wind howl. She did not hear crying.

"I am tired," she said. "I have been working all week. The accounts. The reports. I am tired."

Thomas stepped into the room. He did not look at her. He looked at the floor.

"The water is in the hallway," he said. "I can hear it lapping against the door. It is brown. It smells of earth and rot. It is coming up the stairs."

Margaret stood up. Her legs felt heavy. She walked to the door. She opened it.

The hallway was dry. The floor was wooden. It was cold. She could see the front door at the end of the hall. The lock was closed.

"See?" she said. "There is no water."

Thomas did not answer. He walked past her. He went down the stairs.

"Thomas?" she called. "Come back."

He did not turn around.

She followed him. She went down the stairs. Her feet slipped on the wood. She gripped the banister.

At the bottom, the kitchen was empty. The table was bare. The chairs were pushed in. The window over the sink was open. Rain poured in.

"Thomas," she said.

He was standing by the sink. He was looking at the floor.

"There is no water," she said. "Thomas, look at me."

He turned. His face was pale. He looked thin.

"I saw it, Margaret," he said. "I saw the water. It was red. It was thick. It had your name in it."

She felt a chill. She looked at the floor. It was dry.

"You are tired," she said. "You need to rest. The doctor says you are overworked. You are seeing things."

"The doctor is part of it," he said. "They are all part of it. The rules. The forms. The silence. It is a machine. And we are the fuel."

"Stop it," she said. Her voice was sharp. "You are scaring me."

"I am not scared," he said. "I am afraid for you."

"Of what?"

"Of becoming like the house."

"The house is just wood," she said. "It is just stone. It does not think. It does not feel."

"Everything feels," he said. "If you listen. The walls remember. The floor remembers. It holds the weight of us. It holds our sins. And then it breaks. And the water comes out."

Margaret looked at the window. The rain was lighter now. A break in the clouds let a sliver of moonlight fall on the floor.

"I am going to bed," she said. "You should too. We will talk in the morning."

She turned to leave.

"Margaret."

She stopped.

"Do not go to the office tomorrow," he said.

She looked at him.

"Stay here," he said. "Watch the house. Watch the water."

"I will not stay here," she said. "I have work to do. I have to file the quarterly reports. I have to meet with the board."

"They will come for you," he said. "If you do not stop. If you do not let go. They will take you into the machine. And you will never come out."

"I am not going into the machine," she said. "I am part of the machine. That is my job. That is my life."

"It is not your life," he said. "It is your cage."

She walked away. She went back up the stairs. She went to her room. She closed the door.

She sat on the edge of the bed. Her breathing was fast. She tried to slow it down.

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

She looked at the window again. The moon was out. It was full. It was bright. It looked like a white eye watching her.

She went to the bathroom. She turned on the tap. The water ran. It was cold. She splashed it on her face. She looked in the mirror.

Her face looked old. There were lines under her eyes. There was grey in her hair. She was thirty-five. She looked fifty.

She dried her face. She went back to the bed. She lay down. She pulled the covers up to her chin.

She closed her eyes.

She heard a sound.

A drip.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

It was coming from under the bed.

She opened her eyes. The room was dark.

She looked under the bed.

There was no water.

She heard it again.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

It was louder now. It sounded like a heartbeat.

She got up. She went to the closet. She took out a candle. She lit it.

The flame flickered. It cast long shadows on the walls.

She shone the light under the bed.

There was nothing there.

She shone the light on the window. The glass was dry.

She shone the light on the floor. It was dry.

She walked around the room. The house was silent.

She went back to the bed. She lay down.

She did not sleep.

Morning came. The light was grey.

Thomas was not in bed.

She looked at his pillow. It was cold.

She went to the kitchen. He was not there.

She went to the hallway. He was not there.

She went to the front door. She opened it.

The yard was empty. The grass was wet.

She waited.

Ten minutes passed.

Twenty minutes passed.

He did not come.

She went back inside. She closed the door. She locked it.

She sat at the table. She waited.

The clock on the wall ticked.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

An hour passed.

He did not come.

She stood up. She went to the phone. She picked up the receiver. She dialed his number.

It rang. And rang. And rang.

No one answered.

She hung up.

She sat down again.

The house felt different now. The air was still. The walls seemed to lean in.

She thought of his words.

The water is rising.

It is coming for the beds.

She looked at the floor.

It was dry.

She looked at the walls.

They were white.

She looked at the window.

The sky was clear.

She felt a panic rise in her chest. It was tight. It was hot.

She stood up. She ran to the window. She opened it.

The air was fresh. It smelled of grass.

She looked at the sky. It was blue.

She looked at the ground. It was dry.

She looked at the house. It stood firm.

She looked at her hands. They were steady.

She looked in the mirror. She saw her face. It was calm.

She was safe.

He was wrong.

There was no water.

There was no danger.

There was only the work.

She went to her desk. She opened her bag. She took out her laptop. She turned it on.

The screen glowed.

She began to type.

The reports. The numbers. The facts.

She typed and typed.

The hours passed.

The light changed. It became golden.

She did not stop.

The sun set.

The light faded.

The room became dark.

She did not turn on the lights.

She kept typing.

The keys clacked.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

She heard a sound.

A drip.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

She stopped typing.

She listened.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

It was coming from the floor.

She looked down.

The floor was wet.

A small pool of water was spreading under her desk. It was dark. It was cold.

She looked at her feet. They were in the water.

It was rising.

She looked at the walls. They were sweating.

She looked at the ceiling. It was dripping.

She stood up. The water was at her ankles.

It was cold. It was heavy.

She tried to move. Her legs were heavy.

She looked at the door. It was closed.

She ran to the door. She grabbed the handle.

It would not turn.

She pushed.

It did not move.

She pulled.

It did not move.

The water was at her knees.

She looked at the window. It was covered in dirt. She could not see out.

She hit the glass with her fist.

It did not break.

The water was at her waist.

She felt the weight of it. It pulled at her clothes.

She felt a fear. It was deep. It was old.

She remembered her childhood. She remembered the floods in the valley. She remembered the mud. She remembered the smell.

She remembered her mother. She remembered her mother holding her hand.

She had let go.

She had let go so long ago.

The water was at her chest.

She coughed. Water went into her lungs.

She gasped.

The air was thin.

She looked at the light. The laptop was still on. The screen glowed in the dark water.

The numbers floated on the surface.

She looked at them. They were clear. They were perfect.

She understood then.

The water was not outside.

The water was inside.

It was the weight of the years. It was the silence. It was the rules.

She had been drowning for a long time.

She had just been holding her breath.

She could not hold it any longer.

She opened her mouth.

The water rushed in.

It was sweet.

It was warm.

She felt the weight lift.

She felt the tension break.

She sank.

The light on the screen faded.

The room went dark.

The water filled the house.

It rose to the roof.

It rose to the sky.

It became the rain.

It fell on the town.

It fell on the fields.

It fell on the people.

They looked up.

They saw the rain.

They felt it on their faces.

They did not know where it came from.

They did not know what it meant.

They just stood there.

And let it fall.