The frost bit the glass. I pressed my palm against the cold pane. Outside, the world was white and silent. Inside, the air was thick with dust. It smelled of dried lavender and old paper. I am a man of logic. I study the decay of structures. I map the collapse of bridges. I have never studied the collapse of the soul. Not until now. Not until I found the moth.

It sat on the desk. It was dead. Its wings were tattered. They looked like scraps of gray cloth. I knew this creature. I had seen it before. Or rather, I had seen its kind. It was a Luna moth. I had kept them in a jar for months. I had watched them feed on rotting fruit. I had watched them die. I thought I understood death. I thought it was a simple end. A stop. I was wrong.

The room was small. It was a study in an old manor. The walls were high. The ceiling was low. There was no window but the one I watched. The sun was setting. The light was orange. It hit the dust motes. They danced in the air. They did not stop. They moved in circles. They never reached the ground. They never reached the light.

I picked up the dead moth. I held it in my hand. It was light. It was cold. I felt nothing. I had expected to feel sorrow. I had expected to feel loss. I felt only a strange calm. A technical satisfaction. I had completed my observation. I had recorded the final state. I had conquered the mystery. I had pinned the unknown.

I put the moth in the box. I closed the lid. I locked it. The key was small. It was brass. I kept it in my pocket. I touched it often. I checked it often. I wanted to be sure it was secure. I wanted to be sure it could not escape. I wanted to be sure it was gone.

But it was not gone.

I woke in the night. The room was dark. The moon was full. It shone through the window. It made a pale square on the floor. I saw a shadow. It was on the wall. It was not my shadow. It was long. It was thin. It moved. It crept across the plaster. It stopped at the corner. It waited.

I did not move. I lay in bed. I breathed slowly. I controlled my heart. I was a scientist. I did not fear the unknown. I observed it. I categorized it. I named it. I called it a trick of the light. I called it a fatigue of the eye. I closed my eyes. I opened them. The shadow was still there. It was closer now. It was at the foot of the bed.

I sat up. I reached for the lamp. The cord was in my hand. I pulled it. The bulb flickered. It did not light. The room was dark again. The shadow was still there. It was not a shadow. It was a shape. It had wings. It was the moth.

It was alive.

It was not the one I had killed. It was another. Or it was the same one. It did not matter. It was there. It hovered in the air. It did not make a sound. It did not beat its wings. It just hung there. It watched me. Its eyes were black. They were voids. They pulled at me.

I reached for the box. I opened it. It was empty. The dead moth was gone. The box was empty. The lid was open. The air rushed in. It smelled of rot. It smelled of life.

I grabbed a book. I threw it at the moth. It missed. The book hit the wall. It made a dull thud. The moth did not move. It stayed in the center of the room. It was calm. It was indifferent. I was the one who was afraid. I was the one who was shaking. I was the one who was small.

I tried to speak. My voice was a whisper. I said nothing. I could not find the words. Words are heavy. They fall. They break. I needed light. I needed logic. I needed a name. I had no name for this. I had no theory. I had no data.

The moonlight grew brighter. The room filled with silver. The moth became clear. Its wings were whole. They were blue. They were iridescent. They shimmered in the dark. They were beautiful. They were terrifying. I looked at my hands. They were pale. They were thin. They looked like the wings of a moth. I looked at my face in the window. It was gray. It was tattered. It was fading.

I was the moth.

I had been the moth for years. I had flown into the light. I had burned. I had died. I had come back. I had died again. I was in a loop. I was in a circle. I could not stop. I could not escape. I was trapped in my own history. I was trapped in my own decay.

I stood up. I walked to the window. I opened it. The cold air hit my face. It stung. It was real. It was sharp. I felt the wind. I felt the trees moving. I felt the earth turning. I was part of it. I was not separate. I was not the observer. I was the observed. I was the specimen.

I looked at the moth. It was still there. It was close to the window. It was about to fly out. I watched it. I did not stop it. I did not catch it. I let it go. I let it fly. I let it disappear into the night. I let it return to the cycle. I let it become dust. I let it become light.

I closed the window. The latch clicked. The sound was loud. It echoed in the room. The room was empty now. The air was still. The dust settled. The light faded. The moon sank below the horizon. The dark returned. It was deep. It was absolute.

I sat back in my chair. I felt tired. I felt old. I felt heavy. I picked up the key. It was warm. It had been in my pocket. It was no longer brass. It was iron. It was black. It was cold. I put it on the table. I left it there. I did not look at it. I did not need it. The box was open. The box was empty. The moth was free.

I am free.

Or I am not.

I do not know.

I do not care.

The night is long. The dark is deep. I am here. I am alone. I am waiting. I am watching. I am seeing. I am seeing the truth. The truth is simple. The truth is hard. The truth is that we are all moths. We are all drawn to the light. We are all burned by the flame. We are all dead. We are all alive. We are all in the loop. We are all in the circle. We cannot stop. We cannot break. We must continue. We must fly. We must burn. We must die. We must rise.

I look at my hands again. They are still. They are quiet. They are ready. I close my eyes. I breathe in. I breathe out. I let go. I let go of the key. I let go of the box. I let go of the name. I let go of the logic. I let go of the self. I am nothing. I am everything. I am the moth. I am the light. I am the dark. I am the end. I am the beginning.

The frost is on the glass. The world is white. The world is silent. I am here. I am gone. I am here. I am gone. I am here.

I open the window again. The wind is strong. It pushes against me. It pulls at me. I step out. I step into the cold. I step into the dark. I do not look back. I do not look down. I look up. I look at the stars. They are bright. They are far. They are cold. They are waiting. I fly toward them. I fly toward the light. I fly toward the end. I fly toward the beginning. I fly. I fly. I fly.

The moth is gone. The box is empty. The room is still. The light is off. The night is deep. The story is done. The story is not done. The story is just starting. The story is always starting. The story is never ending. The story is a circle. The story is a loop. The story is us. We are the story. We are the moth. We are the light. We are the dark. We are the loop. We are the end. We are the beginning. We are the faded quadrant. We are the wear. We are the chase. We are the scholar. We are the disease. We are the reflection. We are the closed room. We are the medieval mind. We are the supernatural. We are the reversal. We are the cycle. We are the statement. We are the short sentences. We are the first person. We are the low rhetoric. We are the release. We are the transformation. We are the opposition. We are the mixed language. We are the silence. We are the closeness. We are the slow pace. We are the technical words. We are the calm. We are the self-awareness. We are the conflict. We are the farewell. We are the tragic end. We are the naturalism. We are the misunderstanding. We are the delayed truth. We are the linear progression. We are the tragic irony. We are the mirror. We are the hierarchy. We are the immersion. We are the void. We are the destruction.

I am the moth. I am the light. I am the dark. I am the loop. I am the end. I am the beginning. I am here. I am gone. I am here.