The ink bleeds.

It moves.

You watch.

Your fingers tremble.

The house holds its breath.

Dust motes dance in the shaft of light.

They are not dust.

They are letters.

Tiny, black specks.

They hang in the air.

They wait.

You are Eleanor.

You are alone.

The room is cold.

The wallpaper peels.

Stripes of grey.

Strips of white.

Like bones.

Like skin.

You look at the desk.

The wood is dark.

It is old.

It remembers.

You place your hand on it.

It is cold.

It is hard.

It does not give.

You pick up the pen.

It is heavy.

It is iron.

It sinks into the paper.

You write.

One word.

Then another.

The words are small.

They are sharp.

They cut the page.

You stop.

You look at the wall.

The dust is moving.

It forms a shape.

A circle.

A face.

You blink.

It is gone.

You feel a pull.

In your chest.

A tightness.

A pain.

You know why.

You have always known.

The disease.

It is inside you.

It is in your blood.

It is in your bones.

It is the ink.

You try to breathe.

It is hard.

The air is thick.

It tastes of iron.

It tastes of dust.

You look at the window.

The sky is grey.

It is endless.

It is empty.

You see a bird.

A single bird.

It is black.

It flies.

It does not stop.

It does not land.

It just flies.

You watch it.

Your eyes hurt.

Tears fall.

They are hot.

They are black.

You wipe them away.

Your hand is stained.

You look at the stain.

It does not wash off.

It is part of you.

You are part of it.

The door creaks.

It is slow.

It is loud.

A man stands there.

He is tall.

He is thin.

He is Thomas.

He is your brother.

He is a witness.

He does not speak.

He does not move.

He just watches.

His eyes are dark.

They are deep.

They see everything.

They see nothing.

He knows.

You know he knows.

He has always known.

You look at him.

You want to scream.

You want to run.

You cannot.

Your legs are weak.

Your body is heavy.

It is sinking.

It is sinking into the floor.

It is sinking into the house.

The house is alive.

It is hungry.

It wants you.

It wants your story.

It wants your end.

Thomas steps inside.

His shoes make no sound.

The floor does not creak.

The air does not move.

He stands by the door.

He is a shadow.

He is a wall.

He is the end.

You look at the desk.

The ink is spreading.

It is no longer in the pen.

It is in the wood.

It is in the air.

It is in you.

You feel it moving.

It is in your throat.

It is in your lungs.

It is in your heart.

You try to speak.

No sound comes out.

Only dust.

Black dust.

It fills your mouth.

It fills your nose.

You cough.

It is a dry cough.

It is a hollow cough.

It sounds like breaking glass.

Thomas moves closer.

He is silent.

He is patient.

He waits.

He has waited for years.

He has waited for this moment.

This final moment.

You look at him.

You see his face.

It is pale.

It is calm.

It is sad.

He does not fear.

He does not pity.

He understands.

He has always understood.

You feel a surge of anger.

It is hot.

It is bright.

It is destructive.

You want to break him.

You want to break the house.

You want to break the world.

You want to escape.

But you cannot.

The cycle is complete.

The circle is closed.

The dust is settled.

The story is told.

You look at the paper.

The words are gone.

The page is blank.

But the ink remains.

It is in the fibers.

It is in the wood.

It is in the air.

It will never leave.

It will never fade.

It will never end.

You look at Thomas.

He is still there.

He is still watching.

He is still waiting.

He will wait forever.

He will be the witness.

He will be the keeper.

He will be the silence.

You feel a change.

In your mind.

In your soul.

You stop fighting.

You stop struggling.

You stop breathing.

You let it go.

You let it take you.

You let it become you.

The pain fades.

The fear fades.

The anger fades.

Only the dust remains.

Only the ink remains.

Only the truth remains.

You are the ink.

You are the dust.

You are the story.

You are the house.

You are the cycle.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

The room is silent.

The light is gone.

The dark is total.

The dark is absolute.

You feel nothing.

You are nothing.

You are everything.

The ink flows.

It flows down.

It flows into the floor.

It flows into the earth.

It flows into the roots.

It flows into the water.

It flows into the air.

It flows into the sky.

It flows into the stars.

It flows into the void.

It flows into the next life.

It flows into the next soul.

It flows into the next story.

It flows into the next house.

It flows into the next person.

The cycle continues.

The dust settles.

The ink bleeds.

The story ends.

The story begins.

Thomas turns.

He walks to the door.

He opens it.

The outside is dark.

The wind is cold.

He steps out.

The door closes.

The lock clicks.

The sound is final.

The house is alone.

The house is full.

The house is waiting.

The ink is wet.

The ink is new.

The ink is alive.

It waits for the next hand.

It waits for the next eye.

It waits for the next breath.

It waits for the next end.

It waits for you.

It has always waited for you.

You are here.

You are always here.

You will always be here.

The dust is faded.

The dust is fresh.

The dust is eternal.

The dust is you.

The dust is me.

The dust is us.

The dust is all.

The ink bleeds.

The ink moves.

The ink writes.

The ink erases.

The ink remains.

The story is told.

The story is heard.

The story is felt.

The story is lived.

The story is died.

The story is born.

The cycle turns.

The wheel spins.

The dust flies.

The dust lands.

The dust waits.

The dust dreams.

The dust becomes.

The dust is.

The dust was.

The dust will be.

There is no escape.

There is no release.

There is no end.

There is only the ink.

There is only the dust.

There is only the house.

There is only the cycle.

There is only the truth.

The truth is simple.

The truth is hard.

The truth is black.

The truth is deep.

The truth is you.

You accept it.

You surrender it.

You become it.

You are it.

It is you.

The ink flows.

The dust settles.

The light fades.

The dark returns.

The silence holds.

The story ends.

The story begins.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The ink bleeds.

The dust remains.