The train hissed. Steam curled against the glass. Margaret wiped the fog with her sleeve. Leather. Rough. She looked at the clock. 4:15. Late. Always late.

"Move it, love," a man shouted behind her. He carried a crate. Wood splinters. He didn't look at her. He looked at the track.

Margaret stepped forward. The platform was wet. Ice. Thin layers. Her boots slipped. She caught the railing. Cold metal. She let go. She breathed. In. Out.

Her name was Margaret Holloway. She was forty-two. She had left for the mill town three weeks ago. The letter had said work. Stable. Paid. It had not said the cold. It had not said the silence.

The train arrived. Doors opened. A rush of bodies. Margaret squeezed in. She held her bag. It was heavy. Books. Clothes. A photo of Arthur. She did not look at the photo. Not yet.

She found a seat. By the window. The glass was dirty. She pressed her forehead against it. The landscape blurred. Fields. Gray. Flat. The sky was lower here. It pressed down.

A man sat across from her. He was old. Hair white. Thin. He wore a coat that smelled of coal. He looked at her. He did not blink.

"You're new," he said. His voice was dry. Dust.

"Yes," she said.

"From the city?"

"Yes."

"Good." He nodded. "They need bodies. Hands. We have plenty of hands."

Margaret stared at him. "I have skills," she said. "I am a typist. I can manage accounts."

The man laughed. It was a dry sound. Like cracking ice. "Accounts," he repeated. "Who cares about accounts? We need to keep the machines running. That is the account."

"Arthur," she said. "He said there would be a house. A room. Warmth."

The man looked away. Out the window. The fields passed. Fast. "Arthur," he said. "He is a ghost. Ghosts do not build houses. Ghosts do not heat stoves."

Margaret felt a chill. Not from the air. From the words. "He is my husband."

"Is he?" The man asked. He leaned forward. "Or is he a memory you brought with you? A burden?"

"He is real."

"Everything is real here," the man said. "Even the pain. Even the cold. You cannot fake the cold, Miss Holloway."

The train slowed. The station approached. Margaret stood up. Her legs were stiff. She gripped the strap. The man watched her. His eyes were dark. Deep. Like wells.

"Watch your step," he said.

She stepped out. The air hit her. Sharp. Biting. It tasted of metal. Of rust. The sky was a sheet of iron. The town spread out below. Chimneys. Smoke. Black streaks in the gray.

She walked. The cobblestones were slick. She slipped again. She caught herself. A woman nearby smiled. A small, tight smile. "Careful," the woman said. "They bite."

"Who?" Margaret asked.

"The stones," the woman said. "And the men. And the memories."

Margaret walked faster. She did not want to talk. She wanted to find the house. The address was on a slip of paper. 14 Mill Street. She found the street. It was narrow. Dark. The buildings leaned in. They whispered.

Number 14. A door. Brown. Peeling paint. She knocked. No answer. She knocked again. Harder.

The door opened. A man stood there. He was young. Too young. He looked at her. His face was pale. His eyes were wide.

"Mrs. Holloway?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Arthur sent us a wire. Two days ago."

"Arthur?"

"He is gone, ma'am."

The world stopped. The wind stopped. The smoke stopped. Margaret stood still. Her hand was on the doorknob. The metal was warm.

"Gone?" she whispered.

"Dead," the young man said. "Heart attack. Three days ago. We held the funeral. Small. Quiet. He asked for it. In his will. No crowds. No noise. Just the earth."

Margaret felt nothing. Not at first. She felt a hollow space. A void. The void expanded. It swallowed her. She took a step back. The young man moved to let her in.

"Please," he said. "The room is ready. The fire is lit."

She walked in. The room was small. One bed. A table. A window. The fire crackled. Orange light. It danced on the walls. It looked alive. It looked hungry.

She sat on the bed. The mattress was hard. She touched it. It was cold. She wrapped her arms around herself. She shivered.

The young man left. The door closed. The latch clicked. Soft. Final.

Margaret sat. She waited. She waited for the grief. For the tears. For the scream. They did not come. She felt only the cold. The cold inside her. It was a beast. It paced. It breathed.

She stood up. She went to the window. The view was of the street. The street was empty. The snow began to fall. Flakes. White. Silent. They landed on the sill. They melted.

She watched them. One by one. They disappeared. Gone.

She turned around. She looked at the room. It was empty. It was hers. It was not hers. It was a box. A cage.

She thought of Arthur. She thought of the photo. She did not have the photo. She had left it in the bag. The bag was on the table.

She opened the bag. She pulled out the photo. Arthur’s face. Smiling. Young. Alive.

She looked at the face. She did not recognize him. He was a stranger. He was a ghost. He was a lie.

She dropped the photo. It hit the floor. She did not pick it up.

She walked to the door. She opened it. She went out into the street.

The snow fell. Heavy. Thick. It covered the cobblestones. It covered the tracks. It covered the world.

She walked. She did not know where. She walked until her feet hurt. She walked until her lungs burned. She walked until the town blurred.

She saw a light. A shop. Open. The sign said "General Store."

She went in. The air was warm. Smoky. A man sat behind the counter. He was reading a paper. He looked up.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"I need a ticket," she said.

"A ticket?"

"To leave."

"Leave?"

"Yes."

The man looked at her. He looked at her coat. Her boots. Her face. He saw the cold. He saw the hollow.

"There is no train until morning," he said.

"I need to go," she said. "I need to be gone."

"You cannot go nowhere," the man said. "You are here. That is where you are."

"I am not here," she said. "I am in the past. I am with him. I am in the city."

The man stood up. He walked around the counter. He held a bottle. Whiskey. He poured a glass. He handed it to her.

"Drink," he said.

She drank. The burn. It spread. It reached her chest. It reached her heart. It warmed the void.

"Arthur," she said.

"Who?"

"Arthur."

"He is dead," the man said. "Dead men do not wait."

"I know."

"Then you are free."

"Free?"

"To be alone. To be here. To be cold."

She looked at the glass. It was empty. She looked at the man. He was kind. He was indifferent. He was a witness.

"I am a typist," she said. "I write words. I type them. I make them clean. I make them neat."

"Words do not heat the room," the man said.

"No," she said. "They do not."

She finished the drink. She paid. The man counted the coins. He gave her change.

She walked out. The snow was deeper. It reached her ankles. She stepped in it. The cold bit her skin. She welcomed it. It was real. It was honest.

She walked back. The street was dark. The lights were on. She passed the mill. The machines roared. Low. Deep. A heartbeat.

She reached the door. Number 14. She pushed it open. She went in.

The room was quiet. The fire was low. Embers. Red. Dying.

She sat on the bed. She pulled her coat off. She hung it on the hook. She took off her boots. Her feet were cold. Blue.

She lay down. She pulled the blanket up. It was thin. It did not warm her.

She closed her eyes. She saw Arthur. He was standing in the room. He was looking at her. He was smiling.

"Hello, Margaret," he said.

"Hello, Arthur," she said.

"Are you warm?"

"No."

"Are you happy?"

"I don't know."

"Does it matter?"

"Yes."

"No. It doesn't. You are here. That is all."

She opened her eyes. The room was dark. The embers were gray. Cold.

She sat up. She went to the window. The snow had stopped. The sky was clear. Stars. Bright. Sharp.

She looked at the stars. They were far. They were cold. They were indifferent.

She was alone. She was free. She was defeated.

She lay down again. She did not sleep. She waited for the morning. She waited for the train. She did not want to leave. She wanted to stay. She wanted to be the stone. She wanted to be the cold.

The hours passed. The darkness lightened. The sun rose. Pale. Weak.

She stood up. She put on her boots. She opened the bag. She took out the photo.

She looked at Arthur. She smiled. A small, sad smile.

She placed the photo on the table. She closed the bag.

She walked to the door. She opened it. She stepped out.

The town was waking. Smoke. Noise. Life.

She walked to the station. She bought a ticket. She boarded the train.

The train moved. The wheels turned. Click. Clack.

She watched the landscape pass. The fields. The sky. The town shrank. It disappeared.

She closed her eyes. She breathed. In. Out.

She was Margaret Holloway. She was alone. She was here.

The train hissed. The world turned. On.