The ink was dry. It always was, by the time I saw it.

I held the card. It was small. Square. White paper. Black text. No name. Just a symbol. A circle. A line through it. The mark of the void. Or maybe the mark of the eye. I couldn’t tell. I never could.

My hands shook. Not much. Just a tremor. Like a leaf in a gale. I looked at the door. It was closed. I looked at the window. The city was there. Gray. Wet. Industrial. The steam from the vents rose in thick white columns. It swallowed the street. It swallowed the sky.

I am a ghost here. I am not from this place. I am from a place that is gone. Or maybe it never was. That is what they say. The system says I am nothing. A number. A file. A shadow on the wall.

But I have a shadow. It has a face. It is my face. But it is wrong. The eyes are too wide. The mouth is too tight. It is the face of the man who left. The man who stayed. I do not know which is which. I have been here for ten years. The years blur. The seasons change. The steam stays the same.

My name is Elias. I used to be something else. Now I am just Elias. I work in the archive. I sort the papers. I file the reports. I do not read them. Not all of them. I only look for the mark. The circle with the line.

It appears in the margins. In the corners. Sometimes in the middle of a sentence. It is a whisper. A threat. A promise. I do not know. I have stopped trying to know. Knowledge is a weight. I am tired. I am so tired.

I put the card in my pocket. I walk out. The air is cold. It bites my skin. I walk to the corner. There is a café. It is dark. The lights are low. I go in. I sit by the window. I order coffee. I do not drink it. I just hold the cup. It is warm. It is the only warmth I have.

The door opens. Wind rushes in. A man enters. He is tall. He wears a coat. Gray. Like the steam. Like the sky. He looks at me. I look at him. He sits across from me. He does not order. He just sits.

"Hello, Elias," he says.

His voice is soft. Low. Like gravel under water.

I do not answer. I look at my hands. They are still. The tremor is gone. Or maybe it is just waiting.

"You found it," he says.

I nod. Just a small movement.

"Which one?" I ask. My voice is rough. I have not spoken in days.

He smiles. It is not a happy smile. It is a sad smile. It is the smile of a man who has lost something important. He has lost his way. He has lost his name. I recognize it. It is my smile. It is the smile in the mirror.

"The white one," he says. "The one with the void."

I think of the card. The white paper. The black mark.

"Why?" I ask.

He looks at me. His eyes are dark. Deep. Like the water in the river. He sees me. He sees through me. He sees the man I was. The man I am. The man I will be.

"Because you are ready," he says.

I do not feel ready. I feel empty. I feel hollow. I feel like a shell. A shell that has been scraped clean.

"Ready for what?" I ask.

He leans forward. The coffee cup rattles.

"To let go," he says.

I stare at him. The words hang in the air. They are heavy. They are solid. They have weight. They press down on my chest.

"Let go of what?" I ask.

"Of the mark," he says. "Of the symbol. Of the idea. Of the self."

I shake my head. It is a small shake. A denial.

"I cannot," I say. "It is all I have. It is my identity. It is my proof. If I let it go, I am nothing. I am no one."

He nods. He understands. He has been here before. He is me. Or I am him. It does not matter. We are the same. We are the shadow and the light. We are the question and the answer.

"You are not nothing," he says. "You are everything. You are the steam. You are the city. You are the mist. You are the void."

I look out the window. The steam is rising. It is thicker now. It is blocking the view. I cannot see the street. I cannot see the buildings. I cannot see the world. I can only see the white. The pale, thick, endless white.

"It is beautiful," he says.

I do not see beauty. I see erasure. I see loss. I see the end.

"I am afraid," I say.

"I know," he says. "Fear is the last wall. Break it. And you are free."

I look at my hand. The card is in my pocket. I can feel it. It is hard. It is sharp. It is a thorn in my side.

"What happens if I do?" I ask.

"You disappear," he says. "And then you appear. As something else. As the mist."

I think about the community. The people in the apartment above. The baker on the corner. The woman who waters the plants. They are real. They have names. They have faces. They are not mist. They are not void. They are solid. They are here.

If I disappear, do they disappear? Or do I just leave them behind?

"I have friends," I say.

He looks at me. His expression is soft. Pitying.

"Friends are echoes," he says. "They are sounds in the room. When the room is empty, the sounds stop."

I do not like that. I do not like the idea of being an echo. I want to be the voice. I want to be the sound.

"Then let me stay," I say.

"You cannot stay," he says. "The mist does not stay. It moves. It changes. It covers. It hides. It is the fate of all things. You cannot fight it. You cannot stop it. You can only join it."

I feel a pain in my chest. It is sharp. It is hot. It is the pain of breaking. The pain of shattering.

The card in my pocket burns. It is not fire. It is cold. It is the cold of the void.

I take it out. I hold it in my hand. The paper is white. The mark is black. It is simple. It is stark. It is the end.

I look at the man. He is waiting. He is patient. He has all the time in the world. He has no time at all.

"Is it real?" I ask. "The mark. Is it real?"

He shrugs. "Reality is a story we tell ourselves. The mark is the truth. The truth is that we are all mist. We are all fleeting. We are all gone."

I look at the card. I look at the mark. I think of the years. The long, gray years. The sorting. The filing. The waiting. I think of the man in the mirror. The man with the wide eyes. The man with the tight mouth.

I want to be him. I want to be solid. I want to be here.

But I am not. I am already gone. I am already mist.

I tear the card.

The sound is loud. It is sharp. It is the sound of a bone breaking. The paper splits. The mark is cut. The circle is broken. The line is severed.

The man watches. He does not flinch. He does not move. He just watches.

I tear it again. And again. And again.

The pieces fall. They are small. They are white. They are black. They flutter to the table. They look like snow. They look like ash.

I stop. I look at the pieces. They are just paper. They are just scraps. They are nothing.

I feel a lightness. It is strange. It is terrifying. It is like falling. But I am not falling down. I am falling up.

The man stands up. He buttons his coat. He looks at me. He nods.

"Good," he says.

He walks to the door. He opens it. The wind rushes in. It is cold. It is wet. It smells of rain. Of iron. Of stone.

He steps out. He does not look back. He disappears into the steam.

I am alone.

The coffee is cold. I drink it. It tastes bitter. It tastes like metal.

I look at the table. The paper scraps are there. They are still. They are quiet.

I look out the window. The steam is everywhere. It is white. It is thick. It is blinding.

I cannot see the street. I cannot see the buildings. I cannot see the world.

I close my eyes.

I feel the mist. It is in my lungs. It is in my blood. It is in my bones.

I am not Elias. I am not the man in the mirror. I am not the ghost.

I am the mist.

I am the void.

I am the silence after the word.

I open my eyes. The world is gone. There is only white.

It is not empty. It is full. It is full of everything that was lost. It is full of everything that was forgotten. It is full of us.

I smile. It is a small smile. It is a sad smile. It is the smile of a man who is free.

I stand up. I walk to the door. I open it.

The steam is waiting. It is patient. It is kind.

I step out.

I do not look back.

I disappear.