The kettle sings. It is a thin, high sound. You are tired. Your hands shake. You hold the cup. The tea is hot. It burns. You do not care. The room is small. It is old. The walls are damp. The air smells of rot and lavender. You live here. You have always lived here.

Lord Ashworth is coming.

He comes at noon. He always comes at noon. He brings the sun with him. It hits the floor. It hits the table. It hits your face. You squint. You lower your eyes. You are the servant. You are the shadow. He is the light. He is the fire.

You set the tray down. The plates clink. A small sound. A sharp sound. He does not look at you. He looks at the window. He looks at the garden. The roses are red. They bleed.

"You are early," you say.

Your voice is small. It is dry. He turns. His eyes are cold. They are blue. They are the color of ice. He smiles. It is not a smile. It is a cut.

"I am always early," he says. "Time is a lie."

He sits. He does not wait. He takes the bread. He tears it. The crust falls. It is white. It is soft. You watch. You watch the crumbs. They fall onto his shirt. They are like snow.

"Eat," he says. He points at you.

You pick up a piece. It is dry. It is hard. You chew. It sticks in your throat. You swallow. It hurts. He watches you. He enjoys it. He is a cat. You are a mouse.

The bread is a gift. It is a trap. It is a noose. You eat it. You must eat it. He has the power. He has the land. He has the law. You have nothing. You have only your body. You have only your breath.

"More," he says.

You pour the tea. The liquid is amber. It is clear. It is dark. It goes into the cup. It ripples. It settles. He drinks. He sighs. It is a sound of pleasure. It is a sound of hunger.

"You are wasting away," he says.

He looks at your arms. They are thin. They are pale. The veins are blue. They show. He frowns. It is a small frown. It is a dangerous frown.

"I am well," you lie.

Lies are easy. Lies are cheap. They cost nothing. They buy nothing. He knows. He always knows. He sees through you. He sees the hollow. He sees the dark.

"Then why do you tremble?" he asks.

You stop. Your hands stop. You freeze. You are a statue. You are stone. He is close. He is too close. You can smell him. He smells of pine. He smells of iron. He smells of death.

"I am cold," you say.

The room is warm. The fire is out. It has been out for days. The wood is black. It is ash. It is dust.

"Bring more wood," he says.

You stand. Your legs are weak. They are water. You walk to the corner. The pile is there. The logs are heavy. You lift one. It strains. Your muscles scream. You drop it. It cracks. The sound is loud. It is a gunshot.

He laughs. It is a dry laugh. It is a rattling sound. He claps his hands. Two times. Three times. He is playing. You are the toy.

"Again," he says.

You lift it. You lift it higher. You hold it. Your arms shake. The sweat comes. It is cold. It is wet. It runs down your face. It stings. You hold it. You hold it until your vision blurs.

"Put it down," he says.

You drop it. It hits the floor. It rolls. It stops. You are on your knees. You are breathing. Your chest heaves. In and out. In and out. The air is thick. The air is heavy.

He stands. He walks to you. His shoes are black. They are shiny. They click on the stone. Click. Click. Click. He stops before you. He looks down. His face is blank. His face is a mask.

"You are weak," he says.

"Yes," you say.

"Is that all?"

"No."

"Then what?"

You look at him. You look into his eyes. You see the void. You see the hunger. It is endless. It is black. It wants to swallow you. It wants to eat you.

"I am afraid," you say.

The words are small. They are fragile. They break the air. He tilts his head. He is curious. He is bored. He is cruel.

"Of me?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Good," he says. "Fear keeps you alive."

He turns. He walks to the door. He pauses. He does not turn back.

"Bring the soup," he says. "Midnight."

He leaves. The door swings. It slams. It echoes. The room is quiet. The silence is loud. It is a roaring sound. It is a howling sound. You are alone. You are still. You are empty.

You look at the table. The bread is there. The crumbs are there. The cup is there. The tea is cold. It is still. It is dark. You pick up the cup. You look at it. The liquid is still. It reflects the window. It reflects the sky. The sky is gray. The sky is flat.

You drink. It is cold. It is bitter. It tastes of earth. It tastes of stone. It tastes of time. You swallow. It burns. It burns from the inside. It burns the throat. It burns the chest. It burns the heart.

You are not afraid. You are not weak. You are not a mouse. You are not a shadow. You are the fire. You are the ash. You are the smoke.

The bread was not a gift. It was a mirror. You saw your face in it. You saw your hunger. You saw your desire. You wanted to be him. You wanted to be the light. You wanted to be the power. You wanted to be the one who eats.

But you are not him. You are you. You are the one who waits. You are the one who serves. You are the one who suffers.

You stand. You walk to the door. You open it. The wind blows. It is cold. It is sharp. It cuts your face. It cuts your soul. You step out. The garden is there. The roses are there. They are red. They are dead. They are falling.

You pick up a rose. It is soft. It is wet. It is red. You hold it. The thorn pierces your finger. The pain is sharp. The pain is real. You bleed. The blood is dark. It is warm. It drops. It hits the soil. It soaks in.

You are the rose. You are the thorn. You are the blood.

You go back inside. The door closes. The silence returns. The kettle is cold. The cup is empty. The bread is gone. The crumbs are gone. The ash is gone.

You sit. You close your eyes. You breathe. In and out. In and out. The fear is gone. The anger is gone. The hunger is gone. There is only the peace. There is only the stillness. There is only the end.

The light fades. The shadow grows. The night comes. The night is long. The night is dark. The night is yours.

You are not afraid. You are not weak. You are not a mouse. You are the ash. You are the silence. You are the truth.

You choose to be nothing. You choose to be empty. You choose to be free.

The soup is ready. The pot is hot. The steam rises. It curls. It vanishes. You lift the ladle. The liquid is thick. It is gray. It is cold. You pour it. It hits the bowl. It splashes. It spills.

You do not clean it. You do not care. You sit. You wait. The door will open. He will come. He will look. He will speak. You will answer. You will serve. You will die.

It is done. It is over. It is complete.

You are the mist. You are the pale mist. You cover everything. You hide everything. You take everything. You leave nothing.

The clock ticks. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The sound is steady. The sound is constant. The sound is life. The sound is death.

You smile. It is a small smile. It is a sad smile. It is a true smile.

He is here.