You stand on the roof. The wind is cold. It bites your skin. You are not human. You have never been human. But you wear a suit. You wear a face. It is a good face. It is an old face. You are the Broker. The city hums below. It is a beast. It eats time. It eats life. It eats you. You hold a coin. It is gold. It is heavy. It is warm. It is the only thing that is real.

You climb down. You take the stairs. The concrete is slick. Your shoes slip. You do not fall. You are strong. You are tired. You are so very tired. You reach the lobby. The glass doors are tall. They reflect your suit. They reflect your fear. You push through. The air inside is stale. It smells of dust and rot. It smells of waiting.

A woman is there. She sits on a bench. She is old. Her hair is white. Her eyes are sharp. She is Eleanor. She is your mother. Or she was. Or she is. Time is a river. It moves both ways. She looks at you. She does not smile. She does not frown. She just looks.

"You are late," she says.

"I am here," you say.

"Here is not enough."

You sit next to her. The bench is hard. It presses into your back. You feel the pain. You like the pain. It reminds you you are alive. Or that you are something.

"Did you bring it?" she asks.

You reach into your pocket. You take out the coin. You place it on your knee. It glints. It is beautiful. It is evil.

"I brought it," you say.

"Good."

She stands up. She is short. You are tall. She looks up at you. Her face is a map of lines. Each line is a year. Each year is a debt.

"Follow me," she says.

You stand. You follow her. She walks fast. Her cane taps the floor. Tap. Tap. Tap. It is a rhythm. It is a countdown. You walk behind her. You keep your head down. You are the shadow. She is the light. But the light is dying.

They go to the elevator. The doors close. The numbers change. One. Two. Three. The air gets thicker. You breathe. It is hard. Your heart beats fast. It is a drum. It is a war cry.

The doors open. They are on the top floor. The hallway is long. It is dark. The lights are flickering. They buzz. They sound like insects. Eleanor walks on. You follow. Her cane taps. Tap. Tap. Tap.

They reach the end of the hall. There is a door. It is black. It is iron. It is locked. Eleanor stops. She turns to you. Her eyes are wet.

"This is it," she says.

"What is it?" you ask.

"The end," she says.

You look at the door. You feel a pull. It is magnetic. It is hypnotic. You want to open it. You want to go in. You want to stop.

"Why?" you ask.

"Because," she says. "Because you are my sin."

You do not understand. You look at her. You look at the coin. The coin is warm. It is beating. It is alive.

"Open it," she says.

You reach for the handle. It is cold. It burns. You turn it. The lock clicks. It is a loud sound. It is a final sound. You push the door. It swings open.

Inside is a room. It is small. It is empty. There is a chair. There is a table. There is a mirror. The mirror is broken. It is cracked. It is webbed.

Eleanor enters. She sits in the chair. She looks at you. She looks at the mirror.

"Look," she says.

You look in the mirror. You see your face. It is your face. But it is wrong. It is old. It is dead. It is a skeleton. You see the years. You see the decay. You see the truth.

"You are not a god," she says.

"I am your son," you say.

"No," she says. "You are my mistake."

You feel a shock. It is electric. It runs through your veins. You feel weak. You feel small. You feel human.

"I made you," she says. "I made you to save me. But you saved me for a moment. And then you ate the moment. And then you ate the next. And then you ate the whole world."

You look at the coin. It is in your hand. It is heavy. It is so heavy. It is crushing your hand.

"I tried to stop," you say.

"You could not stop," she says. "You were hungry. You were always hungry. And I was always full. And I wanted to give you. And I wanted to live. And I could not have both."

You look at her. You see her fear. You see her love. It is a terrible thing. It is a dark thing. It is a poison.

"I love you," she says.

"I know," you say.

"I have to kill you."

You do not move. You do not fight. You are tired. You are so tired. You want to sleep. You want to rest.

"Do it," you say.

She stands up. She holds a knife. It is small. It is sharp. It is silver. She looks at you. She looks at the knife. She looks at the door.

"Say it," she says.

"Say what?" you ask.

"Say you are sorry."

You look at her. You want to lie. You want to say yes. You want to make it easy. But you cannot. You are not human. You do not have a soul. You do not have a heart. You only have the hunger.

"I am not sorry," you say.

Her face crumbles. It is like stone. It is like dust. She shakes the knife. Her hand trembles.

"You are a monster," she says.

"I am your son," you say.

She raises the knife. She strikes. It hits your chest. It is cold. It is sharp. You feel it. You feel the pain. You feel the blood. It is red. It is hot. It is real.

You fall to your knees. You look at the wound. It is deep. It is black. It is a hole. You feel empty. You feel light. You feel free.

Eleanor stands over you. She is breathing hard. She is crying. The tears run down her face. They are salt. They are water. They are life.

"It is done," she says.

You look up at her. You see her face. It is soft. It is young. The lines are gone. The fear is gone. She is beautiful. She is alive.

"Goodbye," you whisper.

She looks away. She turns. She walks to the door. She opens it. The light comes in. It is bright. It is blinding.

She steps out. She closes the door. The click is loud. It is final.

You are alone. You are on the floor. You are dying. The room is quiet. The mirror is broken. You see your reflection. It is fading. It is disappearing. You are becoming dust. You are becoming memory. You are becoming nothing.

You think of the coin. It is on the floor. It is rolling. It is spinning. It is gold. It is light. It is forever.

You close your eyes. The dark comes. It is soft. It is warm. It is home.

You are gone.

The city hums below. The wind blows. The lights flicker. The world turns. The sun rises. The day begins. It is a new day. It is an old day. It is the same day.

Eleanor walks down the street. She is alone. She is free. She is heavy. She carries the weight. It is her son. It is her sin. It is her life.

She stops. She looks at the sky. The sky is blue. The sky is vast. The sky is indifferent.

She breathes. She lives. She goes on.

The coin is on the floor. It spins. It glows. It waits. It is patient. It is eternal. It is the golden ritual. It is the end. It is the beginning.

You were the monster. You were the sacrifice. You were the love. You were the lie.

It is over.

It is done.

Silence.