The rain hits the glass. It is hard. It is cold. You are wet. The water runs down your face. You do not wipe it. You are in the office. The office is large. The office is empty. The desk is oak. The oak is dark. You sit. The chair creaks. It sounds like a bone.

"Who are you?"

You look up. The man stands there. He wears a suit. The suit is grey. The suit is torn. The tie is loose. He smells of sweat. He smells of fear. He is old. His eyes are bright. They are wet.

"I am here," you say. Your voice is low. It is flat.

"You are not here," he says. "You are in my head."

You laugh. It is a dry sound. Like leaves.

"I am real," you say.

He steps closer. The floorboards groan. He touches your shoulder. His hand is cold. His hand is rough.

"Look at me," he says.

You look. His face is pale. His face is thin. The skin is tight. The bones show. You see the life in him. It is thin. It is fading.

"Who are you?" you ask again.

"I am the one who built this," he says. He points to the walls. The walls are white. The walls are clean. "I am the one who made the light."

The light is on. The light is yellow. The light is soft.

"You made this?" you ask.

"Yes," he says. "I made the temple."

You look around. It is not a temple. It is a room. It is a boardroom. There are chairs. There is a table. There is a view. The view is of the city. The city is grey. The city is wet.

"It is not a temple," you say.

"It is," he insists. "It is a place of power. It is a place of truth."

You stand up. The chair scrapes. The sound is sharp.

"I am leaving," you say.

"You cannot leave," he says. "You belong here."

You move to the door. The handle is brass. The brass is cold. You turn it. It does not open.

"It is locked," you say.

"It is sealed," he says. "Until you understand."

You turn back. He is watching you. He is smiling. The smile is small. The smile is sad.

"Who are you?" you ask.

"My name is Silas," he says. "I was the architect. I was the master. I held the keys."

You do not know Silas. You do not know the man. You do not know the name.

"Why are you here?" you ask.

"I am the ghost," he says. "I am the echo. I am the debt."

You feel a chill. It is not from the air. It is from inside.

"What debt?" you ask.

"The debt of the poor," he says. "The debt of the hungry. I ate their lives. I drank their hope. I built this house on their bones."

You look at the floor. The floor is clean. The floor is polished. You do not see bones. You see dust. You see shadow.

"I did not do it," you say.

"You did," he says. "You are the new master. You took the seat. You took the power. You are the same."

You shake your head. The motion is slow. The hair is dark. The hair is damp.

"I am no one," you say. "I am a stranger. I am a refugee. I came from nowhere. I have nothing."

"Nothing?" he asks. "You have the room. You have the time. You have the silence. Is that nothing?"

You look at the clock. The clock is gold. The clock is round. The hands are still.

"The time is stopped," you say.

"Yes," he says. "Time is a currency. I spent it all. You are saving it. You are hoarding it. You are rich."

You do not feel rich. You feel empty. You feel hollow.

"I am poor," you say.

"Poor?" he laughs. The laugh is bitter. The laugh is sharp. "You have a roof. You have a desk. You have a name. You have a history. I have none of these things. I have only the memory of the hunger."

You look at him. You see the hunger. It is in his eyes. It is in his hands. It is in his breath.

"I am sorry," you say.

"Do not be sorry," he says. "Be angry. Be afraid. Be alive."

The lights flicker. The sound is a buzz. The air is heavy.

"What do I do?" you ask.

"You must give it back," he says.

"Give what back?"

"The temple. The power. The self."

You look at the door. The brass handle is cold.

"I cannot," you say.

"You must," he says. "Or I will stay. I will live in the walls. I will live in the light. I will live in you."

You feel a presence. It is behind you. It is beside you. It is inside you.

"I am afraid," you say.

"Good," he says. "Fear is the beginning of wisdom."

You turn to the window. The glass is cold. The rain is harder. The city is darker.

"I do not want to be a ghost," you say.

"Then let go," he says.

You reach for the door. Your hand is steady. Your heart is fast. You turn the handle. It turns. The sound is a click.

The door opens. The air rushes in. It is cold. It is wet. It smells of rain. It smells of street.

You step out. The floor is gone. The ceiling is gone. The desk is gone.

You are in the rain. You are in the street. The street is wet. The street is empty.

You stand there. The water runs down your face. You do not wipe it.

Silas is gone. The voice is gone. The room is gone.

You are alone.

You are free.

You are poor.

You walk. Your feet are bare. The pavement is cold. The pavement is hard.

You do not look back.

The rain stops. The sky is grey. The sky is clear.

You see a building. It is tall. It is glass. The glass is dark. The glass is reflective.

You look at your reflection. The face is your own. The face is wet. The face is tired.

You are not a master. You are not a ghost. You are a man. You are a stranger.

You walk away. The city wakes. The cars move. The people move.

You are one of them.

You are small.

You are alive.

The rain starts again. It is light. It is soft.

You do not run. You do not hide.

You walk.

The steps are slow. The steps are steady.

You feel the weight of the air. You feel the weight of the water. You feel the weight of the life.

It is heavy.

It is yours.

You breathe. The breath is deep. The breath is long.

You are here.

You are now.

You are free.

The temple is gone.

The debt is paid.

The silence is yours.

You smile. It is a small smile. It is a real smile.

You walk into the fog. The fog is thick. The fog is white.

You disappear.

You are there.

You are gone.

The city sleeps. The city dreams.

You are the dream.

You are the rain.

You are the silence.

The story ends.

The page turns.

The light fades.

The dark returns.

You are still there.

You are still wet.

You are still free.

The rain hits the glass. It is hard. It is cold. You are wet. The water runs down your face. You do not wipe it. You are in the office. The office is large. The office is empty. The desk is oak. The oak is dark. You sit. The chair creaks. It sounds like a bone.

"Who are you?"

You look up. The man stands there. He wears a suit. The suit is grey. The suit is torn. The tie is loose. He smells of sweat. He smells of fear. He is old. His eyes are bright. They are wet.

"I am here," you say. Your voice is low. It is flat.

"You are not here," he says. "You are in my head."

You laugh. It is a dry sound. Like leaves.

"I am real," you say.

He steps closer. The floorboards groan. He touches your shoulder. His hand is cold. His hand is rough.

"Look at me," he says.

You look. His face is pale. His face is thin. The skin is tight. The bones show. You see the life in him. It is thin. It is fading.

"Who are you?" you ask again.

"I am the one who built this," he says. He points to the walls. The walls are white. The walls are clean. "I am the one who made the light."

The light is on. The light is yellow. The light is soft.

"You made this?" you ask.

"Yes," he says. "I made the temple."

You look around. It is not a temple. It is a room. It is a boardroom. There are chairs. There is a table. There is a view. The view is of the city. The city is grey. The city is wet.

"It is not a temple," you say.

"It is," he insists. "It is a place of power. It is a place of truth."

You stand up. The chair scrapes. The sound is sharp.

"I am leaving," you say.

"You cannot leave," he says. "You belong here."

You move to the door. The handle is brass. The brass is cold. You turn it. It does not open.

"It is locked," you say.

"It is sealed," he says. "Until you understand."

You turn back. He is watching you. He is smiling. The smile is small. The smile is sad.

"Who are you?" you ask.

"My name is Silas," he says. "I was the architect. I was the master. I held the keys."

You do not know Silas. You do not know the man. You do not know the name.

"Why are you here?" you ask.

"I am the ghost," he says. "I am the echo. I am the debt."

You feel a chill. It is not from the air. It is from inside.

"What debt?" you ask.

"The debt of the poor," he says. "The debt of the hungry. I ate their lives. I drank their hope. I built this house on their bones."

You look at the floor. The floor is clean. The floor is polished. You do not see bones. You see dust. You see shadow.

"I did not do it," you say.

"You did," he says. "You are the new master. You took the seat. You took the power. You are the same."

You shake your head. The motion is slow. The hair is dark. The hair is damp.

"I am no one," you say. "I am a stranger. I am a refugee. I came from nowhere. I have nothing."

"Nothing?" he asks. "You have the room. You have the time. You have the silence. Is that nothing?"

You look at the clock. The clock is gold. The clock is round. The hands are still.

"The time is stopped," you say.

"Yes," he says. "Time is a currency. I spent it all. You are saving it. You are hoarding it. You are rich."

You do not feel rich. You feel empty. You feel hollow.

"I am poor," you say.

"Poor?" he laughs. The laugh is bitter. The laugh is sharp. "You have a roof. You have a desk. You have a name. You have a history. I have none of these things. I have only the memory of the hunger."

You look at him. You see the hunger. It is in his eyes. It is in his hands. It is in his breath.

"I am sorry," you say.

"Do not be sorry," he says. "Be angry. Be afraid. Be alive."

The lights flicker. The sound is a buzz. The air is heavy.

"What do I do?" you ask.

"You must give it back," he says.

"Give what back?"

"The temple. The power. The self."

You look at the door. The brass handle is cold.

"I cannot," you say.

"You must," he says. "Or I will stay. I will live in the walls. I will live in the light. I will live in you."

You feel a presence. It is behind you. It is beside you. It is inside you.

"I am afraid," you say.

"Good," he says. "Fear is the beginning of wisdom."

You turn to the window. The glass is cold. The rain is harder. The city is darker.

"I do not want to be a ghost," you say.

"Then let go," he says.

You reach for the door. Your hand is steady. Your heart is fast. You turn the handle. It turns. The sound is a click.

The door opens. The air rushes in. It is cold. It is wet. It smells of rain. It smells of street.

You step out. The floor is gone. The ceiling is gone. The desk is gone.

You are in the rain. You are in the street. The street is wet. The street is empty.

You stand there. The water runs down your face. You do not wipe it.

Silas is gone. The voice is gone. The room is gone.

You are alone.

You are free.

You are poor.

You walk. Your feet are bare. The pavement is cold. The pavement is hard.

You do not look back.

The rain stops. The sky is grey. The sky is clear.

You see a building. It is tall. It is glass. The glass is dark. The glass is reflective.

You look at your reflection. The face is your own. The face is wet. The face is tired.

You are not a master. You are not a ghost. You are a man. You are a stranger.

You walk away. The city wakes. The cars move. The people move.

You are one of them.

You are small.

You are alive.

The rain starts again. It is light. It is soft.

You do not run. You do not hide.

You walk.

The steps are slow. The steps are steady.

You feel the weight of the air. You feel the weight of the water. You feel the weight of the life.

It is heavy.

It is yours.

You breathe. The breath is deep. The breath is long.

You are here.

You are now.

You are free.

The temple is gone.

The debt is paid.

The silence is yours.

You smile. It is a small smile. It is a real smile.

You walk into the fog. The fog is thick. The fog is white.

You disappear.

You are there.

You are gone.

The city sleeps. The city dreams.

You are the dream.

You are the rain.

You are the silence.

The story ends.

The page turns.

The light fades.

The dark returns.

You are still there.

You are still wet.

You are still free.