The dream was of bees.

They were not yellow. They were the color of bruised plums. They hummed a low, mechanical note that vibrated in the teeth. I woke with the taste of copper on my tongue. The ceiling fan turned. Slow. White. I lay there. Counting the blades. Four.

My name is Elias Thorne. I am a clerk. I file. I stamp. I wait. The office is grey. The light is grey. My hands are grey. I have been here for thirty years. Time is a debt. I pay it daily. In hours. In minutes. In the slow erosion of bone.

I looked at my watch. 6:14. I stood. The joints popped. A dry sound. Like cracking dry wood. I dressed. Shirt. Tie. Shoes. The mirror showed a stranger. Thin. Pale. Eyes deep in the sockets. I touched my face. The skin was loose. A mask.

I left the house. The street was wet. Rain. It had rained all night. The air smelled of damp concrete and exhaust. I walked. My shoes squeaked. Wet leather. I passed the bakery. Closed. I passed the park. Empty. The trees were bare. Skeletal. They reached up. Begging.

I took the train. The car was cold. I sat by the window. The city blurred. Grey smears. People passed. Faces. Blank. I watched them. They moved fast. Purposeful. I moved slow. I am old. The clock in my head ticks louder. Each second a thief. Stealing the next day.

I am going to the coast. I do not know why. I have never been to the coast. I have always stayed. Stayed in the file room. Stayed in the routine. But the dream. The bees. They pointed. West. Toward the sea.

The train slowed. The station appeared. Grey stone. Dark. I stepped out. The air was different here. Salt. Sharp. It stung the nose. I hailed a taxi. A black sedan. The driver did not look at me. He started the engine. We drove.

The road wound. Hills. Green. Dark green. The sky was a flat sheet of lead. I watched the trees pass. Oak. Maple. Pine. They were silent. They stood still. I envied them. They do not age. Or so it seems. They shed their leaves. But they return. I do not return. I only fall.

The driver spoke. "Long trip."

"Yes," I said. My voice was rough. A rasp.

"First time?"

"Yes."

He nodded. "You look tired."

"I am tired."

The car climbed. The road narrowed. The view opened. Below us, a valley. Mist. Thick. White. It swallowed the world. I leaned forward. The glass fogged. I breathed on it. A small circle of clarity. I looked out.

I saw a man. Standing in the mist. He was wearing a suit. Like me. He was holding a briefcase. He was walking away. Into the fog. I pressed my face to the glass. He did not turn. He walked on. I knew him. I did not know how. I knew the way he held his shoulders. The way he hid his hands.

I asked the driver to stop. He did not. "No stopping here. Dangerous."

"Stop the car."

"I can't."

I unbuckled my belt. I opened the door. The wind hit me. Cold. Biting. I stepped out. The car sped away. Tires screeching. Dust. I was alone.

The mist was thick. I could not see my hand in front of my face. I walked. Down the hill. The path was muddy. I slipped. Fell. My knee hit a rock. Pain. Sharp. I picked myself up. Blood. Red. Bright against the grey mud. I wiped it. I walked on.

I met a girl. She was young. Maybe twenty. She was sitting on a rock. She was crying. Her face was wet. Her clothes were torn. I stopped.

"Are you hurt?" I asked.

She looked at me. Her eyes were wide. Frightened. "The bees," she whispered.

"What?"

"The bees. They are coming."

I looked around. I saw nothing. Only mist. "There are no bees," I said.

"They are here," she said. She pointed. "In the air. You can hear them."

I listened. I heard the wind. I heard my own breathing. I heard the drip of water from a leaf. I heard nothing else.

"You are wrong," I said. I sat beside her. "It is only mist."

She shook her head. "They eat the time. They eat the years."

I felt a chill. Not from the cold. From the words. *They eat the years.* I looked at my hands. The veins were blue. The skin was thin. I am losing time. I am losing myself.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"I am lost," she said. "I have been walking for days. I do not know where I am."

"I know where I am," I said. "I am going to the sea."

"Can I come?"

I looked at her. She was small. Fragile. A bird with a broken wing. I said yes.

We walked. The mist thinned. The sun broke through. A pale disc. It lit the ground. We saw the path. It was overgrown. Grass. Weeds. We pushed through. The girl held my arm. Her grip was tight. Desperate.

We reached the top of a hill. The view was clear. The sea. It was vast. Dark. Grey. It met the sky in a straight line. No horizon. Just a border. A wall.

"There," I said.

She looked. She smiled. It was a sad smile. "It is beautiful."

"It is cold," I said.

"It is free," she said.

We walked down to the beach. The sand was cold. It bit through my shoes. I took them off. The sand was wet. Dark. I walked. The water lapped at my feet. Cold. I gasped.

I looked at the girl. She was watching the waves. Her eyes were fixed. Unblinking. I watched her. I saw something. In her reflection. In the wet sand. It was not her. It was me. Older. Broken. Withered. I looked at my own reflection. I saw her. Young. Whole. Alive.

I am the old man. She is the young man. I am the past. She is the future. Or perhaps it is reversed. I am the future. She is the past. I do not know. I only know that we are both here. In the mist. In the cold.

I sat on the sand. The girl sat beside me. We did not speak. The waves came. Went. Came. Went. A rhythm. A pulse. Like a heart.

I thought of my office. The files. The stamps. I thought of the years. The thirty years. I had spent them hiding. Hiding in the routine. Hiding in the grey. I had thought I was safe. I had thought I was strong. I was weak. I was a leaf in the wind.

I looked at the girl. "Why did you come?" I asked.

"I wanted to see the end," she said.

"The end of what?"

"Of the dream."

I closed my eyes. I listened. I heard the hum. Low. Deep. It was not in the air. It was in my head. It was the sound of my own blood. The sound of my own time running out.

I opened my eyes. The mist was gone. The sun was bright. The sea was blue. It was a deep, clear blue. I had never seen it before. I had never seen true color. I had lived in grey. I was seeing color now. It hurt. It was too bright.

I stood up. My legs shook. I looked at the girl. She was gone. She had vanished. Like mist. Like smoke. Only her footprint remained in the sand. Small. Fading.

I was alone.

I walked to the water. I stepped in. The cold numbed my feet. My legs. My body. I walked deeper. The water was up to my waist. I could feel the current. It pulled. Gently. Firmly.

I looked back at the shore. It was far. It was a line of grey. The hills. The trees. The path. I saw the train. It was moving. It was coming. I saw the car. It was waiting. I saw my office. The window. The light.

I could go back. I could turn around. I could walk out of the water. I could dry off. I could put on my shoes. I could take the car. I could go to the train. I could go to the office. I could sit at my desk. I could file. I could stamp. I could wait.

I looked at my hands. They were blue. The veins were dark. I looked at the sea. It was infinite. It was deep. It was dark.

I am afraid. I am afraid of the water. I am afraid of the cold. I am afraid of the end. But I am more afraid of the grey. I am more afraid of the waiting. I am more afraid of the silence.

I took a breath. Deep. Full. I filled my lungs with the salt air. I held it. I held it tight. I let it go.

I walked forward.

The water rose. It covered my knees. My hips. My chest. The weight of it was immense. It pressed against me. It pushed me back. I pushed forward. It was a struggle. A fight. Me against the sea. Me against the time. Me against the fear.

I thought of the bees. They were not here. They were in my mind. They were the fear. They were the doubt. They were the voice that said *stop*. *Turn back*. *Save yourself*.

I ignored them. I walked on.

The water covered my shoulders. My neck. The cold was a shock. It burned. It hurt. I opened my mouth. I drank. The water was salty. Bitter. I swallowed.

I stood in the deep. I looked up. The sky was above me. Infinite. Blue. I looked down. The sand was below me. Dark. Still.

I closed my eyes. I felt the water move around me. I felt the current. I felt the pull. I let go.

I let go of the shore. I let go of the office. I let go of the name Elias Thorne. I let go of the fear. I let go of the time.

I sank.

The water was dark. It was quiet. There was no hum. There was no wind. There was no sound. There was only the blue. The deep, endless blue.

I was not alone. I was with the girl. I was with the young man. I was with the past. I was with the future. I was with everyone I had ever known. I was with the bees. I was with the mist. I was with the grey.

I was free.

The water held me. It cradled me. It was warm. It was soft. It was safe.

I drifted. I floated. I rose.

I broke the surface.

The sun was blinding. I gasped. I coughed. Water poured from my nose. My mouth. I kicked. I swam. I reached the shore. I dragged myself onto the sand.

I lay there. I gasped. The air was sweet. The sand was warm. I looked at my hands. They were red. Swollen. But they were mine. I looked at my face. It was wet. It was old. But it was alive.

I sat up. I looked at the sea. It was calm. It was blue. It was vast.

I stood up. I walked to my shoes. I picked them up. They were empty. The sand was inside. I shook it out. I put them on. They were tight. Wet. I put on my shirt. My tie. I straightened it.

I looked at the path. It was clear. The mist was gone. The sun was high. I walked. I walked back up the hill. I walked back to the road.

I saw the car. It was still there. The driver was waiting. He saw me. He opened the door.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Where to?"

"Back," I said.

He drove. The road was straight. The city was far. I watched the trees pass. They were green. They were alive. I watched the sky. It was blue. It was open.

I did not look at my watch. I did not count the minutes. I did not think of the office. I did not think of the files. I thought of the water. I thought of the blue. I thought of the girl.

I was different. I did not know how. I felt lighter. I felt empty. I felt full.

I arrived at the station. I paid the fare. I got out. The city was loud. The noise hit me. Horns. Voices. Engines. I walked to the train. I boarded. I found a seat.

I looked out the window. The city blurred. Grey smears. I looked at my hands. They were steady. I looked at the reflection in the window. I saw my face. It was old. But it was peaceful.

The train moved. It carried me back. Back to the grey. Back to the routine. Back to the life I had left.

But I was not the same. I had been to the edge. I had touched the end. And I had come back.

I sat in the car. I closed my eyes. I listened. I heard the hum. It was faint. Distant. Like a memory. Like a dream.

I opened my eyes. The light was changing. The sun was setting. The sky was orange. Red. Purple. It was beautiful. It was fleeting.

I would go to work. I would file. I would stamp. I would wait.

But I would wait differently. I would wait with my eyes open. I would wait with my heart awake.

I was Elias Thorne. I was a clerk. I was alive.

The train slowed. The station appeared. I stepped out. The air was cool. The street was wet. I walked. My shoes squeaked.

I walked home.