The hammer fell.

It struck the nail with a dull, wet thud. The wood splintered. Not much. Just a crack. Like a bone.

Elias wiped his brow. The sweat stung. The air in the shop was thick. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of light. They swirled. They did not settle. They hovered.

He looked at the door.

It was an old door. Oak. Heavy. It had belonged to a house on the hill. A house that was gone now. Burned? No. Demolished. Progress. They called it progress.

Elias picked up the chisel.

He was a carpenter. A good one. People said so. They said his hands knew things his mind did not. They said he could hear the grain of the tree. They said he was gentle with wood.

He was not gentle.

He was angry.

The anger lived in his chest. It was a cold stone. It sat there. It did not move. It did not speak. It just sat. And it weighed him down.

His wife, Clara, was waiting.

She was not in the shop. She was in the house. Upstairs. In the room with the blue wallpaper. The room where she spent her days. The room where she waited for death to come for her.

Elias set down the chisel.

He looked at the door again.

He had promised to fix it. For the new owners. A young couple. They wanted it restored. They wanted it to look new. They wanted it to be perfect.

He could not make it perfect.

He could only make it last.

He pushed the door.

It groaned. The hinges were rusty. They screamed. A high, thin sound. It cut through the silence. It cut through his thoughts.

He walked out.

The street was empty.

It was late afternoon. The light was turning gold. It was soft. It was kind. It touched the cobblestones. It touched the brick walls. It touched the faces of the passersby.

But Elias did not see it.

He saw only the dark.

He walked fast.

His boots clacked against the stones.

*Clack. Clack. Clack.*

A rhythm.

A march.

He reached the house.

It was small. It was white. It had a black door. It looked clean. It looked safe. It looked like a lie.

He climbed the steps.

His legs shook.

He tried the handle.

It was locked.

He knocked.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

No answer.

He knocked again.

Harder.

The wood shook.

"Clara!" he shouted.

His voice was raw. It tore from his throat. It sounded like a animal. A wounded thing.

Still no answer.

He tried the window.

It was stuck.

He kicked it.

The glass shattered.

Shards flew.

They cut his hand.

Blood welled up.

Red.

Bright.

He pulled the window open.

He climbed in.

The smell hit him.

It was sweet.

It was cloying.

It was the smell of decay.

It was the smell of sickness.

It was the smell of Clara.

He walked into the living room.

The furniture was covered in sheets.

White sheets.

Like ghosts.

He moved them.

He moved the chair.

He moved the table.

He moved the clock.

The clock was stopped.

It was stopped at four o'clock.

He walked to the stairs.

The wood creaked under his feet.

It creaked like a warning.

He climbed.

One step.

Two steps.

Three steps.

The hallway was dark.

The wallpaper was peeling.

It curled at the edges.

It hung like dead skin.

He reached the door.

The blue door.

He opened it.

The room was cold.

The air was still.

Clara was in the bed.

She was small.

She was pale.

Her hair was white.

It spread across the pillow.

Like snow.

She was breathing.

It was shallow.

It was weak.

It was barely there.

Elias fell to his knees.

His knees hit the floor.

The wood was hard.

It did not care.

He took her hand.

It was cold.

It was dry.

It was thin.

The skin was translucent.

He could see the veins.

They were blue.

They were dark.

He held her hand.

He held it tight.

He did not let go.

"I'm here," he whispered.

He did not mean it.

He meant it.

He was confused.

He was lost.

He was angry at her.

He was angry at himself.

He was angry at the world.

He was angry at the disease.

He wanted to kill it.

He wanted to beat it.

He wanted to crush it.

He wanted to break it.

But he could not.

It was inside her.

It was inside him.

It was everywhere.

He looked at her face.

Her eyes were closed.

Her lips were purple.

Her breathing was hitching.

A spasm.

A twitch.

A final struggle.

Elias screamed.

It was not a word.

It was a sound.

A raw, animal sound.

It tore the room apart.

It shook the walls.

It shook the floor.

He shook her shoulders.

"Clara! Clara!"

She did not move.

She did not open her eyes.

She did not breathe.

He checked her pulse.

His fingers were shaking.

He pressed them to her neck.

He waited.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

Ten seconds.

Nothing.

The silence was loud.

It was deafening.

It was crushing.

It was infinite.

She was gone.

She was dead.

He sat there.

He sat on the floor.

He held her hand.

He did not let go.

He did not cry.

He did not scream.

He just sat.

The dust motes danced in the light.

They swirled.

They did not settle.

They hovered.

He looked at the window.

The glass was broken.

The air came in.

It was cold.

It was clean.

It was free.

He stood up.

His legs were weak.

He swayed.

He caught himself on the bed.

He looked at her.

He looked at her face.

It was peaceful.

It was still.

It was beautiful.

He hated it.

He hated her for dying.

He hated her for leaving.

He hated her for being gone.

He hated himself for loving her.

He hated himself for being alive.

He walked to the door.

He walked out.

He walked down the stairs.

He walked out of the house.

He walked into the street.

The light was fading.

The sun was setting.

The sky was purple.

The sky was dark.

The street was empty.

The cars were gone.

The people were gone.

The noise was gone.

There was only silence.

There was only him.

There was only the stone.

In his chest.

The cold stone.

It was heavy.

It was hard.

It was real.

He walked.

He walked to the shop.

He walked to the door.

The oak door.

He looked at it.

It was broken.

The crack was wide.

It was ugly.

It was wrong.

He picked up the hammer.

He raised it.

He swung.

It hit the wood.

The wood splintered.

Not much.

Just a crack.

Like a bone.

He swung again.

And again.

And again.

The wood shattered.

The door fell.

It crashed to the floor.

It made a loud noise.

It made a final sound.

He stood there.

He held the hammer.

His hand was bleeding.

The blood dripped.

It fell on the wood.

It fell on the floor.

It was red.

It was bright.

It was life.

He dropped the hammer.

It clattered.

It rolled.

It stopped.

He looked at the hole.

The hole in the wall.

The hole in the floor.

The hole in his life.

He walked in.

He walked to the back.

He sat down.

He put his head in his hands.

He did not cry.

He did not scream.

He just sat.

The dust motes danced.

They swirled.

They did not settle.

They hovered.

The light was gone.

The dark was here.

The dark was warm.

The dark was kind.

The dark was Clara.

He closed his eyes.

He breathed in.

He breathed out.

The stone in his chest was still there.

But it was lighter.

It was smaller.

It was quiet.

He opened his eyes.

The shop was dark.

The door was gone.

The wood was gone.

The past was gone.

The future was unknown.

The present was now.

He stood up.

He walked to the door.

He picked up the pieces.

He put them in a pile.

He burned them.

The fire was small.

The fire was hot.

The fire was bright.

The wood turned to ash.

The ash turned to smoke.

The smoke rose.

It rose into the dark.

It rose into the sky.

It rose into the nothing.

It was gone.

He watched it go.

He did not follow.

He did not reach for it.

He let it go.

He let her go.

He let himself go.

He stood in the ashes.

The cold air touched his face.

It was clean.

It was free.

It was real.

He took a step.

Then another.

He walked out of the shop.

He walked into the street.

The street was empty.

The light was gone.

The dark was here.

He walked.

He walked on.

He did not look back.

He did not look down.

He did not look up.

He looked forward.

He looked into the dark.

He walked.

He walked into the night.

The night was vast.

The night was deep.

The night was full of stars.

The stars were bright.

The stars were cold.

The stars were far.

He was small.

He was alone.

He was free.

The stone in his chest was gone.

It was gone.

It was gone.

He was empty.

He was full.

He was alive.

He was dead.

He was both.

He was nothing.

He was everything.

He walked.

He walked on.

The road was long.

The road was dark.

The road was faded.

The road was gone.

He was there.

He was walking.

He was alive.

The end.