12th of October, 1893.

The rain has not stopped for three days. It drums against the windowpane. A steady, gray rhythm. I write by the light of a tallow candle. The flame flickers. It is cold in the room. Cold in the house. I wear my greatcoat. It is heavy. The wool itches.

I am still here. I am still in the study. My father’s study. The door is locked. The key is in my pocket. I feel its weight. A small, cold bite.

There is a sound in the hallway. Soft. Wet. Like a footstep on moss. Or a breath. I do not look up. I keep writing. My hand shakes. The ink blots. The words smear.

I am a soldier. I have served. I have fought. I have seen men die. I have held their heads. I have washed the blood from my hands. I am used to fear. I am used to silence. But this silence is different. It is thick. It presses against my eardrums. It tastes of copper and old dust.

The sound comes again. Closer. A scrape. A drag. Something heavy moving across the floorboards.

I do not move. I breathe in. I breathe out. The candle gutters. The shadows stretch. They reach for me. They are long and thin. They look like fingers.

Who is there?

I am the captain. I am the head of the house. I am the one who keeps order. That is what they said. That is what the letter said.

*You are to guard the estate. You are to guard the lines. Do not cross them. Do not speak to what lies beyond. The boundary is the law. The boundary is the peace.*

I read it twice. I burned it. The paper curled. It turned to ash. The ashes fell on the desk. Like snow.

But the words remained. In my mind. In the walls.

The boundary.

I drew it myself. Chalk on the floor. A white line. Sharp. Clean. It cut the room in two. One side for me. One side for it.

I do not know what it is. I do not want to know. I am a man of duty. I follow orders. I hold the line.

But the line is wearing thin.

I can see it now. In the corner. The chalk is flaking. The wood beneath is dark. Wet. The line is no longer white. It is gray. It is brown. It is dissolving.

The sound stops.

Silence.

Total silence.

Even the rain has ceased.

I hear my own heart. Thump. Thump. Thump. It is loud. It is fast. It is a drum.

I look at the door.

It is still closed.

I look at the line.

It is broken.

A small gap. A crack. Like a fissure in ice.

I feel a chill. It is not from the air. It is from the floor. It rises up. It climbs my legs. It settles in my chest.

I must repair it.

I stand up. My knees crack. My back aches. I am old. I am tired. I have been standing for hours. Or days. Time is strange here. The clock on the mantel is stopped. The hands are at midnight. They have been at midnight for a week.

I walk to the shelf. I take the chalk. It is short. It is dirty. I hold it in my hand. It feels smooth. Alive.

I kneel. I touch the gap. I draw.

A new line.

It holds.

For a moment.

Then I hear a voice.

It is not loud. It is soft. It is close. It is right behind me.

"Thomas."

My name.

My father’s name.

I do not turn. I know better. If I turn, the line breaks. If I turn, I lose.

"Thomas," it says again.

The voice is warm. It is kind. It is the voice I remember. The voice that read to me in this room. The voice that held my hand when I fell.

"Father?" I whisper.

My voice is a rasp. A dry leaf.

The voice does not answer.

It sighs.

A long, slow sigh. It sounds like wind through a broken window.

I feel a pain in my head. Sharp. Stabbing. Like a needle.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

I remember the letter.

*The boundary is the law.*

I remember the order.

*Guard the lines.*

But who am I guarding?

And from what?

I have been here for a month. I have eaten little. I have slept less. I have watched the line. I have fed the fire. I have kept the candle lit.

I am the guard. I am the wall.

But walls do not sleep. Walls do not eat. Walls do not dream.

I am tired.

I am so tired.

The voice speaks again.

"It is time, Thomas."

I open my eyes.

The line is gone.

Not broken. Gone.

The floor is bare. Wood. Old wood. Dark stains.

And there is nothing else.

No monster. No ghost. No darkness.

Just the room.

Just the desk.

Just the candle.

I stand up.

I look at the door.

I look at the window.

The rain is falling.

I look at my hands.

They are clean.

I laugh.

A small, dry sound.

It sounds like a cough.

I walk to the door.

I take the key.

I unlock it.

The lock clicks.

It is a loud sound. In the quiet.

I open the door.

The hallway is empty.

The stairs are dark.

I step out.

My foot hits the floor.

Wood.

I walk down the stairs.

One step. Two steps. Three steps.

My shoes squeak.

I reach the bottom.

I am in the main hall.

It is vast. It is empty. The furniture is draped in sheets. They look like ghosts. They look like bodies.

I walk to the front door.

It is heavy. It is oak.

I push it open.

The night rushes in.

Cold. Wet. Smells of wet earth.

I step out.

The garden is overgrown.

Weeds. Tall. Black.

They sway in the wind.

I look back at the house.

It is dark.

I look at my hands.

I clench them.

I unclench them.

I am free.

I think I am free.

I walk to the edge of the garden.

The fence.

The iron fence.

It is high. It is sharp.

I look over it.

The road.

The streetlamps.

They are on.

I see a figure.

Standing on the road.

He is in a coat.

He is looking at me.

I squint.

It is a stranger.

Or is it?

I look closer.

He is wearing a hat.

A black hat.

He raises his hand.

He waves.

I do not move.

I feel a pull.

A tugging in my chest.

Like a fishhook.

I walk toward the fence.

I climb over.

The iron is cold. It cuts my fingers. I do not care.

I land on the grass.

I walk to the man.

He is closer now.

I see his face.

It is my father’s face.

No.

It is my face.

Younger.

Cleaner.

But the eyes.

The eyes are the same.

He looks at me.

He smiles.

He says nothing.

He turns.

He walks away.

Into the street.

I follow.

I run.

My heart pounds.

I catch up.

I grab his arm.

It is solid.

It is warm.

I pull him back.

I look into his eyes.

They are empty.

They are full.

I ask, "Who are you?"

He does not answer.

He looks at the house.

He points.

I look.

The house is gone.

There is only a field.

Grass.

Weeds.

A fence.

I look back at the man.

He is gone.

I am alone.

I stand in the street.

The rain falls on me.

I am wet.

I am cold.

I look at the field.

I look at the fence.

The fence is broken.

A gap.

A crack.

I look at my hands.

I see a white line.

On my skin.

Faint.

Pale.

Like a scar.

Like a chalk mark.

I rub it.

It does not wash off.

I run back to the field.

I jump over the fence.

I run to where the house was.

I kneel.

I dig.

My hands are in the dirt.

Cold. Wet.

I find something.

A piece of paper.

Yellowed.

Torn.

I pick it up.

I read.

*You are to guard the estate. You are to guard the lines. Do not cross them. Do not speak to what lies beyond. The boundary is the law. The boundary is the peace.*

I look around.

There is no house.

There is no boundary.

There is only me.

And the line on my hand.

I close my eyes.

I breathe in.

I breathe out.

I am not the guard.

I am the line.

I am the boundary.

I am the wall.

I stand up.

I look at the field.

It is empty.

It is full.

I turn.

I walk back to the road.

I do not look back.

I do not look at my hand.

I know it is there.

I will always know it is there.

The rain stops.

The clouds break.

A single star appears.

It is small.

It is bright.

It is far away.

I walk into the dark.

I walk into the night.

I am not free.

I am the boundary.

And the boundary never ends.

It only wears.

And wears.

And wears.

I am Thomas.

I am the guard.

I am the line.

I am the wall.

I am here.

I am always here.

The candle burns.

The flame flickers.

The shadow stretches.

The door is locked.

The key is in my pocket.

I feel its weight.

A small, cold bite.

I am in the study.

I am in the house.

I am in the dark.

I am waiting.

For the next line to break.

For the next sound to come.

For the next voice to speak.

I am patient.

I am still.

I am the line.

And the line holds.

For now.

The rain begins again.

A soft, gray rhythm.

Drumming on the pane.

I write.

I write.

I write.

The ink blots.

The words smear.

I do not stop.

I cannot stop.

I am the guard.

I am the boundary.

I am the wall.

I am here.

I am always here.

The candle burns.

The flame flickers.

The shadow stretches.

The door is locked.

The key is in my pocket.

I feel its weight.

A small, cold bite.

I am in the study.

I am in the house.

I am in the dark.

I am waiting.

For the next line to break.

For the next sound to come.

For the next voice to speak.

I am patient.

I am still.

I am the line.

And the line holds.

For now.