"You look tired, James."

I looked up. Margaret stood in the doorway. She wore the blue dress. The one I had given her. Three years ago.

"I am fine," I said.

My voice was flat. It felt like gravel in my throat. I turned back to the screen. The cursor blinked. It blinked. And blinked.

The office was cold. The air conditioning hummed. A low, constant drone. It sounded like a dying animal. I had been here for six hours. I had not moved. My legs felt heavy. They felt like lead.

Margaret stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind her. The sound was sharp. It cut the air.

"You have not eaten," she said.

"I do not need to eat."

"You need to sleep."

"I cannot sleep."

She sat down. The chair creaked. She looked at me. Her eyes were dark. They were deep. I could see my own reflection in them. It was small. It was distorted. I looked old. I looked broken.

"James," she said.

"I am working, Margaret."

"On what?"

"The report."

"The report on the bridge."

"Yes."

She picked up a pen. She tapped it on the desk. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound echoed. It was loud in the silence.

"You are losing yourself," she said.

I shook my head. "No."

"You are disappearing."

"I am here."

"Are you?"

I looked at her. I really looked at her. Her face was familiar. And yet. It was not. It was a mask. A perfect mask. But the face underneath was gone. I knew it. I knew it because I had seen it. In the mirror. In the glass. In the reflection of the water.

It was not my face.

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

She stopped tapping the pen. She looked sad. She looked so sad. It hurt to look at her.

"You know," she said.

"I do not know."

"You know, James. You have always known."

I stood up. My chair rolled back. It hit the wall. The sound was a thud. A dull, heavy thud. I walked to the window. The city lights blurred outside. Yellow. White. Red. They smeared across the glass. Like oil on water.

"I need to go," I said.

"Go where?"

"Home."

"This is your home."

"No."

I turned away from the window. The view was gone. There was only the glass. And the reflection. And the face that was not mine.

Margaret stood up. She came to me. She reached out. Her hand was warm. I could feel the heat of her palm. It was real. It was the only real thing in the room.

"Come with me," she said.

"I cannot."

"Please."

I looked at her. I wanted to say yes. I wanted to run. I wanted to hold her. But I could not. My body was not mine. My mind was not mine. I was a ghost. I was a echo. I was nothing.

"I have to finish," I said.

"Finish what?"

"The work."

"There is no work, James. There never was."

I felt a cold spike in my chest. It spread. It moved to my arms. My legs. My fingers. It was the cold of the void. The cold of the deep.

"What are you saying?" I whispered.

She took my hand. Her grip was firm. She pulled me toward the door.

"Come."

I did not move. My feet were rooted. The floor was stone. It was hard. It was unyielding.

"James."

I closed my eyes. I tried to breathe. The air was thin. It was hard to pull it in.

"I am not James," I said.

The room tilted. The lights flickered. The hum of the air conditioning grew loud. It roared. It screamed.

Margaret pulled harder. Her face was close. I could see the pores on her skin. I could see the tiny lines around her eyes. I could see the fear.

"Who are you, then?" she asked.

I opened my eyes. The room was dark. The lights had gone out. The only light came from the city outside. It was bright. It was blinding.

"I am the shadow," I said.

Margaret let go of my hand. She stepped back. She looked terrified.

"Who is behind you?" she asked.

I looked over my shoulder. There was no one. There was only the empty space. The void.

"I am behind me," I said.

She screamed. It was a short sound. A sharp cry. Then she ran. The door opened. It slammed shut. The sound was final.

I was alone.

The darkness pressed in. It was heavy. It was thick. It felt like water. I was drowning. I was sinking.

I walked to the desk. My legs moved on their own. I sat down. The chair was cold. I put my hands on the keyboard. My fingers moved. They typed.

I did not know what I was typing. I did not know what I was saying. But I kept going.

The words came fast. They were easy. They were smooth. They were beautiful.

They were lies.

The screen glowed. The light was blue. It cast long shadows across the room. The shadows moved. They danced. They twisted.

I looked at the text. It was a report. It was a story. It was my life.

But it was wrong.

Every detail was wrong. Every name was wrong. Every date was wrong.

It was not my life. It was a cage.

I tried to stop. I tried to take my hands away. But they would not move. They were locked. They were bound.

I looked at the cursor. It blinked.

I looked at the clock. It was three in the morning.

I looked at the window. The city was awake. The people were asleep.

I was awake.

I was the only one awake.

The words continued.

I wrote about the bridge. I wrote about the fall. I wrote about the water.

I wrote about Margaret.

I wrote about the blue dress.

I wrote about the pen.

I wrote about the cold.

I wrote about the void.

I wrote until the sun came up.

The light crept in. It was pale. It was weak. It touched the edge of the desk.

I stopped.

My hands were shaking. They were red. They were raw.

I looked at the screen. The document was full. It was complete.

I saved it.

I stood up. My legs felt weak. I swayed. I grabbed the desk. The wood was smooth. It was cold.

I walked to the door. I opened it.

The hallway was bright. The lights were on. They were white. They were sterile.

I walked down the hall. My feet made no sound. I was a ghost. I was a shadow.

I reached the elevator. I pressed the button.

It came. The doors opened.

I stepped in.

The doors closed.

I was alone.

The elevator moved up.

I looked at the mirror on the wall.

I saw my face.

It was my face.

It was real.

It was mine.

I smiled.

It was a small smile. It was a sad smile.

I touched the glass. My finger left a smudge.

I wiped it away.

The mirror was clear.

I was clear.

I was free.

Or so I thought.

The elevator dinged.

The doors opened.

The lobby was empty.

The receptionist was not there. The chairs were empty. The phones were silent.

I walked to the exit. The glass doors were open.

The air was fresh. It was cold. It smelled of rain.

I stepped outside.

The street was empty. The cars were gone. The people were gone.

The buildings were tall. They reached up. They touched the sky.

The sky was grey. It was heavy. It was low.

I walked.

I walked for an hour. I walked for two hours.

I did not know where I was going. I did not know where I was.

I saw a figure.

It was far away. It was on the corner.

It was Margaret.

She stood still. She did not move.

I walked toward her. My heart beat fast. It pounded in my chest.

I reached her.

She turned around.

She smiled.

It was the same smile. It was the same face.

But it was not her.

It was me.

I looked down. I was holding a pen. It was blue.

I looked at my hand. It was shaking.

I looked at the ground. There was a piece of paper. It was white. It was blank.

I picked it up.

I looked at Margaret. She looked at me.

She opened her mouth.

She said nothing.

She just smiled.

I looked at the paper.

I began to write.

The words came fast.

They were easy.

They were beautiful.

They were lies.