The bus leaves before you have finished tying your shoes.

This is the first thing. The engine coughs, a dry, mechanical rasp. The driver, a man with eyes like wet gravel, does not look at you. He never does. You stand on the curb in the grey morning light. Your fingers fumble. The knot slips. You tie it again. By the time the lace is secure, the tail lights are red dots in the distance, shrinking until they are gone.

You do not chase it. You never chase it.

Your name is Clara. You are thirty-four years old. You live in the house that smells of lemon oil and old paper. It is a small house in a town where the trees have no leaves, even in July. The air is thick. It tastes of metal.

You go inside. You lock the door. The click is loud in the silence.

On the table sits the jar. It is glass. It is clear. Inside, there is a substance that looks like honey, but it is white. It is thick. It does not flow. It sits in a mound, solid and still. This is the medicine. This is the life.

You look at it. You do not touch it. Not yet.

The jar is always full. It has always been full. You remember a time when it was half empty. You remember a time when it was empty. But now, it is full. The system provides. The system sees. The system knows what you need before you do.

You are tired. The tiredness is in your bones. It is a weight. It is a stone in your chest. You sit down. The chair creaks.

You think of your mother. She died ten years ago. She had the same eyes as you. She had the same hands. She used to bake bread. The smell of yeast used to fill the house. It was a warm smell. It was a living smell. Now, the house smells of lemon oil. The bread is gone. The yeast is gone.

You pick up the jar. It is heavy. It is cold to the touch. You unscrew the lid. The air rushes in. It smells of nothing. It smells of absence.

You dip your finger in. The white substance resists. It pulls at your skin. It is cold. You put your finger in your mouth. It tastes like ash. It tastes like dust. It tastes like time.

You swallow.

The taste lingers. It coats your tongue. It sinks into your throat.

You wait.

Nothing happens.

This is the second thing. You wait, and nothing happens.

You go to the window. You look out at the street. The street is empty. The houses are identical. They are grey. They are quiet. The windows are dark.

You see a woman across the street. She is standing on her porch. She is wearing a blue dress. She is holding a cup. She is drinking. She is watching you.

You look away.

You do not want to be seen.

You go to the kitchen. You open the cupboard. There is a bowl. There is a spoon. There is a bag of flour. The flour is white. It is fine. It looks like the medicine.

You take a pinch of the flour. You hold it in your hand. You look at it. It is just flour. It is food. It is life.

You put it back.

You go to the living room. You sit on the sofa. The cushions are worn. The fabric is thin. You can see the springs.

You think about the bus. You think about the driver. You think about the red dots in the distance.

You wonder where it goes.

You wonder if it stops.

You wonder if anyone gets off.

The clock on the wall ticks. It is loud. It is precise. It is relentless.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

You feel the weight in your chest again. It is heavier now. It is pressing on your ribs. It is pushing against your lungs.

You breathe in. It is hard.

You breathe out. It is easy.

The medicine is working.

You close your eyes.

You remember your childhood. You remember the garden. You remember the dirt under your fingernails. You remember the rain. You remember the smell of the wet earth. It was a dark smell. It was a rich smell. It was a smell that meant something was growing.

Nothing is growing now.

The garden is paved. The dirt is covered. The rain is stopped. The earth is silent.

You open your eyes.

The jar is on the table. It is still full. It is still white. It is still still.

You stand up. Your legs are stiff. You walk to the table. You look at the jar.

You pick it up again.

You unscrew the lid.

You dip your finger in.

You put it in your mouth.

You swallow.

You wait.

Nothing happens.

This is the third thing. You wait, and nothing happens.

You go to the door. You open it. The air is cold. It is sharp. It cuts at your face.

You step outside.

The street is empty.

You walk to the porch of the house across the street. You knock on the door.

No one answers.

You knock again.

No one answers.

You look through the window. The house is dark. The cup is on the table. The blue dress is on the chair.

The woman is gone.

You stand in the street. You look at the house. You look at the door. You look at the sky.

The sky is grey. It is flat. It is endless.

You feel a tear slide down your cheek. It is cold. It is salty.

You wipe it away.

You walk back to your house. You do not run. You do not hurry. You walk slowly. You walk carefully.

You go inside. You lock the door.

You sit down.

The clock ticks.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

You look at the jar.

It is full.

It is white.

It is still.

You think about the bread. You think about the yeast. You think about the smell.

You go to the cupboard. You take out the bowl. You take out the spoon. You take out the bag of flour.

You pour the flour into the bowl. You make a hole in the center. You add water. You mix it. The dough is cold. It is sticky. It is alive.

You knead it. Your hands are in the dough. The dough is in your hands. You feel the texture. You feel the warmth of your own body.

You let it rise.

You wait.

The dough expands. It fills the bowl. It pushes against the sides. It is soft. It is light.

You put it in the oven.

The heat rises. The smell changes. The smell of yeast returns. It is warm. It is living. It is real.

You wait for the bread to bake.

You sit at the table. You watch the oven. The glass glows orange. The light is warm.

The bread is done.

You take it out. It is golden. It is crisp. It is hot.

You cut a slice. You put it on a plate. You put it in front of you.

You look at the jar.

The jar is still full. The jar is still white. The jar is still still.

You look at the bread.

The bread is yellow. The bread is soft. The bread is alive.

You pick up the slice of bread. You bite into it.

It tastes like salt. It tastes like water. It tastes like life.

You swallow.

You feel a warmth in your stomach. It spreads. It moves to your chest. It moves to your head.

You feel lighter.

You feel clear.

You look at the jar.

You pick it up.

You pour the white substance onto the floor.

It spills. It spreads. It makes a white puddle.

You look at it.

It is just a puddle.

It is just dust.

It is just time.

You sweep it up. You put it in the bin.

You close the bin.

You sit down.

The clock ticks.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

You feel the weight in your chest. It is gone. It is replaced by the warmth. It is replaced by the bread.

You go to the window. You look out at the street.

The woman is back.

She is standing on the porch. She is wearing the blue dress. She is holding the cup.

She is not drinking.

She is looking at you.

She smiles.

It is a small smile. It is a sad smile. It is a real smile.

You smile back.

You do not know why.

You do not know if it matters.

You go to the table. You pour another slice of bread. You eat it.

You eat it slowly. You taste every crumb. You taste every grain.

You feel the sun on your face. It is warm. It is gentle. It is real.

You think about the bus. You think about the driver. You think about the red dots.

You do not chase it.

You do not need to.

The bus is gone.

The medicine is gone.

The bread is here.

The life is here.

You sit in the silence. The silence is no longer empty. It is full. It is full of the smell of yeast. It is full of the taste of salt. It is full of the warmth of the sun.

You close your eyes.

You breathe in.

You breathe out.

The clock ticks.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

But you do not hear it.

You hear your own heart.

It beats.

It beats.

It beats.

You open your eyes.

The jar is empty.

The floor is clean.

The bread is gone.

The woman is gone.

The sun is setting.

The sky is turning purple. It is turning black.

It is beautiful.

It is terrifying.

It is real.

You stand up.

You walk to the door.

You open it.

The air is cold.

The street is dark.

You step outside.

You walk to the curb.

You wait.

The bus comes.

It stops.

The door opens.

The driver looks at you.

His eyes are wet gravel.

He nods.

You step onto the bus.

You sit down.

The bus moves.

The red dots appear in the distance.

They shrink.

They disappear.

You are alone.

You are free.

You are gone.

The end.