You are standing in the dark.

The air is thick. It smells of rust. And wet wool. And old paper. You hold the ledger. It is heavy. It is cold.

Who are you? You are the investigator. You are the one who looks. You see everything. You say nothing.

The room is a box. It is a brick box. The windows are high up. The glass is cracked. Outside, the rain hits the stone. *Tick. Tick. Tick.* It sounds like a clock. It sounds like a heart.

You are in the basement. Of the Mill. The Mill is dead. It has been dead for years. But it is not dead now. Not tonight.

You are not alone.

There is a man. He stands by the door. He is tall. He wears a grey coat. His face is pale. His eyes are red.

"Can I help you?" he asks.

His voice is soft. It is like dry leaves.

"No," you say.

You do not look at him. You look at the ledger. You turn a page. The paper is thin. It tears easily.

"Who are you?" he asks again.

"I am looking for something."

"What?"

"The truth."

He laughs. It is a short sound. A cough.

"There is no truth here. Only dust."

You walk forward. Your boots scrape on the concrete. *Scrape. Scrape.*

"Show me," you say.

He steps aside. He lets you in.

The room is full of machines. They are big. They are black. They stand like giants. They are sleeping. But they dream. You can feel it. The metal hums. It is a low sound. It goes into your bones.

You touch the gears. They are cold. They are sharp.

"Where is it?" you ask.

"Where is what?"

"The record. The one about the fire."

The man stops. His hand goes to his pocket. He pulls out a watch. He looks at it.

"That was a long time ago," he says.

"Time does not matter."

"Time is everything."

He turns his back to you. He looks at the machines.

"They worked hard," he says. "They gave everything. And we took it. We took it all."

You do not answer. You watch him. You see his shoulders shake. Just a little. Just a tremor.

"Who was here?" you ask. "When the fire started?"

"Everyone," he says. "And no one."

This is a puzzle. You like puzzles. You solve them.

"Names," you say. "I need names."

He turns around. His face is hard now. Like stone.

"You want names? Names are heavy. They break the neck."

"I will carry them."

"No," he says. "You will not. You are too light. You are nothing. You are just wind."

You feel anger. It is a hot coal in your chest. You throw it.

"You are wrong," you say. "I am here. I am real. And I am not leaving."

He smiles. It is a sad smile. It is a tired smile.

"Then you will see," he says. "You will see what we see. When the lights go out. When the dark comes in. It is not empty. It is full. It is full of us."

The lights flicker.

*Buzz.*

The room goes dark.

For a second. Then it is back. But the air has changed. It is thicker. It is heavier.

The man is gone.

You are alone.

But you are not alone.

You hear a voice. It is coming from the machines. It is coming from the walls.

*Remember,* it says.

You look at the ledger. You open it to the last page. There is a name. It is written in red ink. It is your name.

You do not recognize it. But you feel it. It is yours. It has always been yours.

You close the book. You hold it to your chest.

Who are you?

You are the keeper. You are the guard. You are the one who stays.

The door opens.

The man is back. He is holding a light. It is a small lantern. The flame is yellow. It is steady.

"I told you," he says. "You are part of it."

"I didn't ask to be part of it."

"No one ever does. It just happens. You stay. You watch. You keep the record. And you forget. That is the price."

"Forget?"

"Yes. So you can keep going. So you can bear the weight."

You look at the ledger. You look at the machines.

"I don't want to forget."

"Then you will break."

"I am not afraid to break."

He looks at you. He looks at you with pity. And with fear.

"You are brave," he says. "Brave and stupid. Like the rest of us."

He hands you the lantern.

"Take it. The dark is coming. It is always coming. You have to light the way. Not for them. For you. So you don't get lost."

You take the lantern. It is warm. It feels like a hand. It feels like a life.

"Where do I go?" you ask.

"Up," he says. "Always up. Out of the dark. Into the light. But the light is not bright. It is pale. It is weak. But it is enough. It has to be enough."

You walk toward the stairs. Your feet move. You do not feel them. You are floating.

The man follows you. He is silent. He is a shadow.

You climb the stairs. One by one. They are creaky. They are old.

At the top, there is a door. It is wood. It is painted white. But the paint is peeling.

You push it open.

You are in the attic.

It is full of light.

No. It is not light. It is fog. It is thick, white fog. It fills the room. It touches your face. It is soft. It is cold.

You see shapes. They are moving. They are people. But they are not people. They are ghosts. They are echoes.

They are working. They are moving the gears. They are writing the ledger. They are watching.

You are one of them.

You see yourself. You are holding the ledger. You are looking at the machines. You are the man in the grey coat.

You are the investigator.

You are the subject.

You are the cage.

The fog clears.

You are standing in a circle. There are others. They are silent. They are watching you.

One of them steps forward. It is a woman. She is old. Her face is wrinkled. Her eyes are kind.

"Welcome," she says.

"Where am I?" you ask.

"You are home," she says. "You have always been home."

"I don't remember."

"You are not supposed to remember. That is the deal. You keep the secret. You keep the watch. And you let go. You let go of who you were. So you can be what you need to be."

"I don't want to let go."

"You already have. Look at your hands."

You look.

Your hands are shaking. They are dirty. They are stained with ink. And oil. And blood.

You have been here before.

You will be here again.

The circle closes. The fog rises.

You feel a pain. It is in your head. It is in your heart. It is sharp. It is clean.

It is the pain of waking up.

But you do not wake up.

You stay.

You hold the ledger. You hold the lantern.

You watch the machines.

You listen to the rain.

*Tick. Tick. Tick.*

The man in the grey coat is gone.

The woman in the fog is gone.

You are alone.

But you are not alone.

You are with them. All of them. The ones who stayed. The ones who watched. The ones who kept the fire from spreading.

You are the community. You are the collective. You are the obsession.

You love this place. You hate this place.

But you love it more.

You open the ledger. You write a new name.

It is your name.

You close the book.

You turn off the lantern.

The dark comes in.

It is sweet.

It is final.

You are free.

You are trapped.

It is the same thing.

You sit down.

You wait.

The rain continues.

*Tick. Tick. Tick.*

You do not move.

You do not breathe.

You are the attic.

You are the faded room.

You are the memory that will not fade.

You are the shadow on the wall.

You are the light in the dark.

You are the truth.

And the truth is heavy.

And you carry it.

And you do not drop it.

And you do not stop.

Because someone has to.

Because no one else will.

And that is the price.

And you pay it.

Every day.

Every night.

Every second.

You pay it with your silence.

You pay it with your presence.

You pay it with your soul.

And you do not complain.

Because complaining is a luxury.

And you are not a luxury.

You are a necessity.

You are the foundation.

You are the root.

You are the dark.

And the dark is good.

The dark is necessary.

The dark is where we go when we are tired.

The dark is where we go when we are broken.

The dark is where we go when we are free.

You close your eyes.

You smile.

It is a small smile.

It is a sad smile.

It is a happy smile.

It is all of them.

And none of them.

You are here.

You are there.

You are everywhere.

You are nowhere.

You are the story.

And the story is over.

But it is not over.

It is just beginning.

Again.

And again.

And again.

*Tick.*

*Tick.*

*Tick.*