The dream was wet. It tasted of iron and salt. Thomas woke with his mouth full of river silt, the taste clinging to the back of his throat like a lie. He was in the cabin. The walls sweated. The ship groaned, a low, metallic moan that vibrated through the floorboards and into his bones. He sat up. The light was grey. The light was always grey.

"Thomas."

The voice came from the corner. Old Elias sat in the wicker chair, his feet barely touching the floor. His eyes were closed. His lips moved. Thomas stared at him. Elias had been dead for three days. Or was it four? Time slipped here. Time was water.

"Get up," Elias said. His voice was dry. Like leaves. "They are coming."

Thomas stood. His legs shook. He looked at the table. A single apple sat there. It was red. Too red. It pulsed in the dim light. It was not an apple. It was a heart. It was his own heart, ripped from his chest and placed on the wood. He reached for it. His hand passed through the fruit. It was a ghost. It was a memory.

"Look at it," Elias said. "Look at the stem."

Thomas looked. The stem was black. Rotting. The fruit was perfect. The rot was inside. He felt a pang in his gut. A cold, sharp pain. He knew this pain. He knew it from the mines. He knew it from the cold.

"Who?" Thomas asked.

"The Master," Elias said. "The one who owns the water."

Thomas thought of Mr. Vane. He thought of the man on the ship. The man with the white coat and the smile that never reached his eyes. Vane stood on the deck. Vane held the rope. Vane pulled.

"I am leaving," Thomas said.

"You cannot leave," Elias said. "You are the root. The root stays. The leaf falls."

Thomas touched the table. The wood was smooth. It was warm. It felt like skin. He remembered his mother. She used to sing to the potatoes. She said the earth was hungry. She said if you gave it your blood, it would give you bread. Thomas had given his blood. He had given his years. He had given his breath. And now he had nothing.

"Where is my brother?" Thomas asked.

Elias opened his eyes. They were white. Cloudy. Like milk.

"He is in the dream," Elias said. "He is in the water."

Thomas closed his eyes. He heard the water. It was loud. It was screaming. It was a thousand voices crying out in a language he almost remembered. He heard his brother’s voice. Sam. Sam was calling his name. Sam was laughing.

"Thomas! Come on!"

The sound was bright. It cut through the grey. It cut through the sweat. It cut through the fear. Thomas wanted to go. He wanted to run. He wanted to jump.

"No," Elias said. "You must stay."

"Why?" Thomas asked.

"Because you are the anchor," Elias said. "Without you, the ship sinks."

Thomas felt the weight. It was heavy. It was crushing. It was the weight of the coal in his lungs. It was the weight of the chain around his neck. He was not a man. He was a tool. He was a machine. He was a piece of wood in the engine.

The door opened.

The light flooded in. It was harsh. It was white. It burned. Thomas squinted. He saw the man. Vane stood in the doorway. He held a glass of wine. The wine was red. Like the apple. Like the heart.

"Morning, Thomas," Vane said. His voice was soft. It was smooth. It was like oil. "How did you sleep?"

Thomas did not move. He did not speak. He looked at the apple. It was gone. The table was empty. The wood was bare.

"Bad dream?" Vane asked. He stepped inside. The door closed behind him. The sound was a click. A small, final sound.

"Yes," Thomas said. His voice was a whisper.

"Tell me," Vane said. He sat in the chair. The chair creaked. "I am curious."

Thomas looked at Elias. Elias was gone. The corner was empty. The wicker chair was empty. There was only dust. There was only shadow.

"There was a man," Thomas said. "In the corner. He was dead."

Vane smiled. It was a thin smile. It did not reach his eyes. "Dead men are troublesome," Vane said. "They do not work. They do not pay. They only take up space."

"He said you were the Master," Thomas said.

"I am the Master of this ship," Vane said. He raised his glass. The wine caught the light. "And you are the Master of your labor. Do not confuse the two."

Thomas felt a heat in his chest. It was anger. It was old. It was deep. It was the anger of the mine. The anger of the dark.

"I am leaving," Thomas said.

Vane laughed. It was a short, dry sound. Like a bone breaking. "Leaving? Where to?"

"Anywhere," Thomas said. "Anywhere but here."

"Anywhere is here," Vane said. "The world is a cage, Thomas. You are the bird. But the bird is tired. The bird is sick. The bird does not fly."

Thomas stood up. His legs were steady. His hands were still. He felt clear. He felt light. He felt like he was waking up.

"I am not a bird," Thomas said.

"Then what are you?" Vane asked.

"I am the root," Thomas said.

Vane frowned. He tilted his head. He looked at Thomas. He looked at the empty table. He looked at the corner.

"The root," Vane repeated. "Yes. The root holds the tree. But the tree dies. And the root rots. And the earth swallows it. That is the nature of things. That is the nature of work."

"No," Thomas said. "The root grows. It goes down. It finds the water. It drinks. It lives."

Vane stood up. He was tall. He was strong. He was a mountain. He moved toward Thomas. The air in the cabin grew thick. It grew heavy. It smelled of wine. It smelled of sweat. It smelled of death.

"You are a fool," Vane said. His voice was low. It was dangerous. "You think you are special. You think you are different. You are not. You are coal. You are ash. You are dust."

Thomas looked at him. He did not fear him. He did not hate him. He felt only pity. Pity for the man who could not see. Pity for the man who was trapped in his own skin. Pity for the man who was already dead.

"I am Sam," Thomas said.

Vane froze. His hand stopped. His face changed. The color drained from it. His eyes widened.

"Sam is dead," Vane whispered.

"No," Thomas said. "Sam is here. Sam is in the water. Sam is in the dream. Sam is me."

Vane stepped back. He tripped. He fell. He hit the floor. The wine spilled. The red liquid spread across the planks. It looked like blood. It looked like life.

"You are lying," Vane said. He pushed himself up. His hands shook. "You are sick. You are mad. The coal has eaten your mind."

"I am not mad," Thomas said. "I am awake."

Vane looked at him. He looked at the wine on the floor. He looked at the door. He looked at Thomas. He saw something in Thomas’s eyes. He saw the truth. He saw the ghost. He saw the brother.

"Get out," Vane said. His voice was thin. It was broken.

Thomas did not move.

"Get out!" Vane screamed.

Thomas walked to the door. He opened it. The light poured in. It was bright. It was warm. It was real. He stepped out. The deck was wet. The wind was cold. The sea was grey.

He looked back. Vane was in the cabin. Vane was alone. Vane was with the wine. Vane was with the ghost.

Thomas walked to the edge of the ship. He looked down. The water was black. It was deep. It was endless. He saw the reflection of the ship. He saw the reflection of himself. He saw the reflection of Sam.

Sam was smiling. Sam was waving. Sam was calling his name.

Thomas raised his hand. He waved back.

The ship moved. The waves rose. The wind howled. Thomas felt the pull. It was strong. It was sweet. It was home.

He stepped forward.

The water caught him.

It was cold.

It was wet.

It was quiet.

He sank.

He did not fight.

He did not struggle.

He let go.

He let go of the root.

He let go of the tree.

He let go of the name.

He let go of the past.

He let go of the pain.

He let go of the fear.

He let go of the self.

He was the water.

He was the dream.

He was the end.

The ship continued.

The ship sailed on.

The sea was calm.

The sky was clear.

The sun rose.

The light was gold.

The light was bright.

The light was new.

Thomas was gone.

Thomas was free.

Thomas was home.