The door did not open. It breathed.

Eleanor stood on the other side. She had been standing there for three days. Or three hours. Time in the Grey District did not move in lines. It pooled. It leaked.

Margaret looked at the wood. It was oak. Old oak. The grain was dark and swollen, like a bruise that would not heal. The air in the hallway smelled of wet ash and iron.

"Eleanor," Margaret said. Her voice was dry. It scraped against the silence.

The door opened.

Eleanor stepped in. She wore a grey coat. The fabric was heavy. It soaked up the light. Her face was pale. Her eyes were red. Not from crying. From the dust.

"You came," Eleanor said.

"I had to."

"You should not have."

Margaret walked past her. She went to the window. The glass was cold. It bit her fingertips. Outside, the city was a ruin of glass and steel. The sun was a white coin in a grey sky. It did not warm. It only illuminated the decay.

The walls of the apartment were weeping. Water seeped from the plaster. It dripped onto the floor. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Eleanor sat on the sofa. The springs groaned.

"We need to talk," Eleanor said.

"About what?"

"About the key."

Margaret felt a chill. It was not from the cold. It was from the word.

The key was not a metal thing. It was a feeling. It was a promise made in a time before the war. Before the city burned. Before the sky turned the color of blood.

"We made a deal," Eleanor said. Her voice was low. It was a whisper that cut.

"I do not remember a deal."

"You do."

Margaret looked at her sister. They looked alike. They had the same sharp jaw. The same dark hair. But Eleanor was wearing a mask. It was made of bone. It covered her face from nose to chin. Only her eyes were visible. They were empty.

"I am hungry," Eleanor said.

Margaret went to the kitchen. The stove was cold. The pots were empty. There was no food. There had been no food for weeks.

"There is nothing," Margaret said.

"Then we are done."

"Done with what?"

"With living."

Margaret felt a surge of anger. It was hot. It burned in her chest.

"No," she said.

She turned around. Eleanor was standing. She was tall. She was taller than she had ever been. Her shadow stretched across the floor. It did not match her body. The shadow was long. It was thin. It pointed at Margaret.

"You are afraid," Eleanor said.

"I am not afraid."

"You are."

Margaret’s hand went to her pocket. Her fingers found the small, cold object. The locket. It held a photo of their mother. The mother was smiling. The smile was a lie.

"I will not let you take this place," Margaret said.

"It is not a place," Eleanor said. "It is a door."

The lights flickered. The hum of the city outside grew louder. It sounded like a scream.

"Let me in," Eleanor said.

"Get out."

Eleanor smiled. Behind the bone mask, the smile was a tear in the fabric of the room.

"Fine," she said.

She walked to the window. She raised her hand. Her fingers were long. They were sharp. She touched the glass.

The glass did not break. It melted.

The window became a hole. The wind rushed in. It was cold. It was wet. It smelled of rot.

Margaret screamed. She ran to the window. She grabbed Eleanor’s arm.

"Stop it," she shouted.

Eleanor looked at her. Her eyes were black.

"I have to," Eleanor said.

"Why?"

"Because I am hungry."

The wind pulled at Margaret’s hair. It pulled at her clothes. It tried to pull her out.

Margaret held on. Her fingers slipped. The skin on Eleanor’s arm was cold. It was hard. It was like stone.

"Let go," Eleanor said.

"No."

"Margaret."

The name was a weapon. It cut deep.

Margaret’s grip loosened.

Eleanor fell.

She fell into the street. She did not scream. She just fell. The wind caught her. She was a leaf. She was a shadow. She was gone.

Margaret stood at the window. Her hands were shaking. Her breath was fast.

The door at the end of the hallway opened.

It was not Eleanor.

It was Thomas.

He was old. He was thin. He wore a coat that was too big for him. He held a cane. The cane was made of bone.

He looked at Margaret. He looked at the window.

"She is gone," he said.

"Who?" Margaret asked.

"Eleanor."

"I know."

"Did you let her go?"

"I didn’t let her go. She fell."

Thomas nodded. He walked into the room. His feet made no sound.

"You are next," he said.

Margaret turned around. She backed away.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the door is open. The promise is broken. The hunger remains."

Margaret felt the floor shake. The walls groaned. The water from the ceiling fell faster. It was a rain. It was a flood.

She ran to the door. She grabbed the handle. It was hot. It burned her hand.

She let go. She cried out.

Thomas stood in the center of the room. He raised his cane.

"Rest," he said.

The room closed in. The walls moved. The floor tilted.

Margaret fell.

She hit the ground. The pain was sharp. It was bright.

She looked up.

The ceiling was gone.

There was only the sky.

It was black.

Stars were falling.

They were not stars. They were eyes.

Thousands of eyes. They looked down. They saw her. They judged her. They wanted her.

She tried to stand. Her legs would not move.

She tried to speak. Her mouth was full of ash.

She remembered the promise.

*We will protect each other.*

She remembered the betrayal.

*You left me.*

She remembered the fear.

*You are the monster.*

She was wrong.

Eleanor was not the monster.

The city was the monster.

The hunger was the monster.

And she was the door.

She had always been the door.

She had kept the thing out. She had held the line. She had suffered so that Thomas could live. She had suffered so that the city could stand.

But the city was dead.

And so was the line.

The eyes descended.

They touched her skin.

It did not hurt.

It felt like peace.

It felt like sleep.

It felt like home.

Margaret closed her eyes.

She let them in.

The dark took her.

The door closed.

The hallway was empty.

The silence was complete.

The rain stopped.

The ash settled.

In the distance, a bell rang.

It was a single note.

It was clear.

It was sad.

It was the end.

The city slept.

The hunger was sated.

For now.