The clock in the corridor ticks. It is a heavy sound. It is the only sound. You sit in the chair. The leather is cold. It bites into your skin. You are not a man. You are not a woman. You are a thing. You are a presence. You are the dust that settles on the mahogany desk. You are the shadow that stretches across the floor.

The room is the office of Arthur Penhaligon. He is the Manager. He is the Superior. He is the authority. You are the Subordinate. You are the anomaly. You are the strange guest who was invited in. You were not invited. You slipped in. You seeped in. You are the fog that has found its way into the warm house.

Arthur Penhaligon does not look at you. He looks at the paper. He looks at the ink. He looks at the rain against the glass. The rain is a curtain. It is a veil. It is the outside world kept at bay. You are inside. You are trapped. You are free.

"Mr. Penhaligon," you say.

Your voice is not a voice. It is a vibration. It is a hum. It is the sound of the walls settling. It is the sound of the earth turning.

Arthur stops. He lifts his pen. He looks up. His eyes are grey. They are the color of the stone. They are the color of the ash. He does not see you. He sees the space where you are. He sees the distortion. He sees the wrongness.

"Who is there?" he asks.

It is a question. It is a challenge. It is a trap. You know it. You have always known it. You are the trap. You are the prey. You are the hunter. The roles are fluid. The roles are fixed.

"I am here," you say.

"I see no one," he says.

"I am the no one," you reply.

He frowns. He is a man of logic. He is a man of order. He is a man of the Industrial Age. He believes in gears. He believes in pistons. He believes in the measurable. You are the unmeasurable. You are the error in the machine. You are the glitch in the code.

"Leave," he says.

"I cannot leave," you say. "I am part of the structure. I am the foundation. I am the roof. I am the air you breathe. I am the blood in your veins. I am the thought in your head."

He stands up. He walks to the window. He looks out. The city is dark. The city is wet. The city is alive. The city is dead. The smoke from the chimneys rises. It curls. It twists. It becomes a shape. It becomes a face. It becomes your face.

"You are a ghost," he says. "A remnant. A mistake."

"I am a cycle," you say. "I am the return. I am the inevitable. I am the tide. I am the moon. I am the pull."

He turns back to the desk. He sits down. He picks up his pen. He writes. He writes a letter. He writes a report. He writes a denial. He writes a dismissal. He writes his own end.

The words are black. The words are dry. The words are cold. The words are sharp. They cut the air. They cut the silence. They cut the space between you.

"Who are you?" he asks again.

"I am you," you say.

He laughs. It is a dry sound. It is a brittle sound. It is the sound of a bone breaking. It is the sound of a leaf falling.

"No," he says. "I am Arthur Penhaligon. I am the Manager. I am the man who runs this place. I am the man who makes things happen. I am the man who controls the outcome."

"You are the man who fears the outcome," you say.

He stops writing. He looks at you. He really looks at you. For the first time, he sees the shape. He sees the form. He sees the truth. The truth is not a monster. The truth is not a demon. The truth is a mirror. The truth is a reflection. The truth is himself.

He sees the eyes. They are his eyes. He sees the mouth. It is his mouth. He sees the soul. It is his soul. But it is not his soul. It is the soul of the one who came before. It is the soul of the one who will come after. It is the soul of the eternal. It is the soul of the inescapable.

The realization hits him. It is a blow. It is a punch. It is a wave. It washes over him. It drowns him. It lifts him. It sets him down.

He is not the Manager. He is the Clerk. He is the Tool. He is the Part. He is the Gear. He is the Piston. He is the Cog. He is the Wheel. He is the Thing that turns. He is the Thing that grinds. He is the Thing that wears out. He is the Thing that breaks.

"You are the cycle," he whispers.

"I am the wheel," you say.

He drops the pen. It rolls across the desk. It stops at the edge. It falls. It hits the floor. It makes a sound. It is a small sound. It is a loud sound. It is the sound of the end.

The room changes. The light shifts. The shadows lengthen. The clock stops. The tick is gone. The silence is total. The silence is absolute. The silence is eternal.

Arthur Penhaligon is gone. The chair is empty. The desk is bare. The paper is blank. The ink is dry. The room is cold. The room is still. The room is waiting.

You are still there. You are the thing. You are the presence. You are the dust. You are the shadow. You are the fog. You are the air. You are the blood. You are the thought. You are the cycle. You are the wheel. You are the return. You are the inevitable. You are the tide. You are the moon. You are the pull.

The door opens. A new man enters. He is young. He is strong. He is full of hope. He is full of fire. He is full of life. He is the next Manager. He is the next Superior. He is the next Authority.

He looks around. He looks at the chair. He looks at the desk. He looks at the window. He looks at the dark. He looks at the rain. He looks at the space. He feels the cold. He feels the weight. He feels the presence.

"Hello?" he says.

"I am here," you say.

He does not hear you. He does not see you. He does not know you. He does not care you. He sits down. He picks up the pen. He begins to write. He begins to work. He begins to live. He begins to die.

The cycle continues. The wheel turns. The tide rises. The moon pulls. The inevitable comes. The inescapable stays.

You are the faded guest. You are the one who remains. You are the one who waits. You are the one who watches. You are the one who knows. You are the one who is. You are the one who will be. You are the one who has been. You are the one who is the end. You are the one who is the beginning. You are the one who is the middle. You are the one who is the all.

The rain falls. The city sleeps. The clock ticks. The silence sings. The truth is spoken. The truth is heard. The truth is felt. The truth is known. The truth is accepted. The truth is surrendered. The truth is released. The truth is let go.

You are free. You are bound. You are alive. You are dead. You are here. You are there. You are everywhere. You are nowhere. You are the faded guest. You are the eternal return. You are the inescapable cycle. You are the tragic truth. You are the beautiful end. You are the sorrowful beginning. You are the self. You are the other. You are the same. You are the different. You are the one. You are the many. You are the all. You are the nothing.

The story ends. The story begins. The story continues. The story is you. The story is me. The story is us. The story is them. The story is the world. The story is the void. The story is the light. The story is the dark. The story is the sound. The story is the silence. The story is the word. The story is the whisper. The story is the scream. The story is the breath. The story is the heart. The story is the soul. The story is the spirit. The story is the ghost. The story is the life. The story is the death. The story is the life after death. The story is the death before life. The story is the eternal now. The story is the timeless past. The story is the endless future. The story is the faded guest.