The wine was red as old blood. It pooled on the white tablecloth. Elias wiped it with a napkin. He smiled. It was a thin smile.

"You poured too much," said Clara.

"I poured exactly what I wanted to," Elias said. He raised his glass. "To the house."

Clara drank. The glass was crystal. It caught the light. It shattered the light into tiny stars.

"Is it finished?" she asked.

"Not yet," he said. "It is always not yet."

The room was large. The ceiling was high. The air was thick. It smelled of wax and dust and old money. The guests were talking. They were loud. They were laughing. The sound was a low hum. It buzzed in Elias’s ears.

He looked at his hands. They were steady. They were clean. He was a man who built things. He built houses. He built them strong. He built them to last. He had built this one for forty years. It was his masterpiece. It was his life.

"You look tired," Clara said.

"I am fine," he said.

"You are not fine. You have been staring at the wall for an hour."

"The wall is interesting," he said.

Clara laughed. It was a short laugh. It did not reach her eyes. "You are strange, Elias."

"I am a builder," he said. "I am a creature of structure. I like walls."

The door opened. A man walked in. He was tall. He was thin. He wore a coat that was black. It was too dark for the room. It swallowed the light.

"Hello, Elias," the man said.

Elias froze. His hand tightened on the glass. The crystal cracked. A spiderweb fracture ran down the side.

"Who is this?" Elias asked.

"An old friend," Clara said. Her voice was soft. It was dangerous.

"Clara, I don't know him."

"You know him," Clara said. "You built him."

The man stepped forward. He had no face. Not quite. It was a blur. A smudge. Like a stain on a painting. Like a shadow without a source.

"I am the draft," the man said.

Elias felt a coldness in his chest. It spread to his fingers. It spread to his toes. He tried to speak. He could not. The air was gone. The room was gone. Only the man was there. Only the black coat.

"What do you want?" Elias whispered.

"I want what you have," the man said. "I want the space."

"I have no space," Elias said. "I am full. I am solid."

"You are hollow," the man said. "You are a hole in the world."

Elias looked at Clara. She was watching. She was not afraid. She was smiling. It was a sad smile. It was a knowing smile.

"Clara," he said. "Clara, help me."

"I cannot," she said. "I am part of it."

"What part?"

"The part that leaves," she said.

The man raised his hand. He pointed at the floor. The wood groaned. It creaked. It sounded like a bone breaking.

"You built this house," the man said. "You built it to keep the cold out. You built it to keep the dark out. You built it to keep yourself in. But you forgot something, Elias."

"What?" Elias asked.

"Forgetting is a kind of death," the man said.

The floor shook. The table wobbled. The wine spilled. It ran across the white cloth. It looked like a river. It looked like a vein.

"Stop it," Elias said. "Stop it now."

"I am not stopping," the man said. "I am beginning."

The walls began to move. They did not fall. They breathed. They expanded. They contracted. The plaster cracked. White dust fell like snow. It covered the guests. They coughed. They covered their mouths. They screamed.

Elias stood up. His chair fell back. It hit the wall. It made a loud thud.

"Clara!" he shouted.

She was standing by the window. The window was open. The night air rushed in. It was cold. It was sharp. It cut through the warm air of the room.

"I have to go," Clara said.

"Where?"

"Outside," she said. "Where there are no walls."

"Come with me," Elias said.

"I cannot," she said. "I am the door, Elias. I am the way out. If I stay, you are trapped."

"No," he said. "I will break the walls. I will break the house. I will bring you back."

"You cannot," she said. "You are the house. You are the walls. If you break it, you break yourself."

The man in the black coat was laughing. It was a sound like wind. It was a sound like tearing paper.

"Choose," the man said. "The structure or the space."

Elias looked at the room. It was beautiful. It was his work. Every nail was driven by his hand. Every beam was cut by his saw. It was perfect. It was perfect and it was a prison.

He looked at Clara. She was looking at the moon. The moon was pale. It was full. It was hanging in the sky like a lantern.

"I choose the space," Elias said.

Clara nodded. She walked to the window. She stepped out. She did not look back.

The wind took her. The darkness took her. She was gone.

The room shuddered. The cracks widened. The ceiling sagged. The light from the chandelier flickered. It died.

The man in the black coat stepped closer. He was right in front of Elias. He was inches away.

"You have made your choice," the man said.

"I have," Elias said.

"It is the wrong choice," the man said.

"Is it?" Elias asked.

"Freedom is a void," the man said. "It is empty. It is cold. It is alone."

"I know," Elias said.

He looked at his hands. They were trembling. They were dirty. They were covered in dust.

"I built this to be safe," he said. "I built this to be known. I wanted to be seen. I wanted to be real."

"And now?" the man asked.

"Now I am nothing," Elias said. "Now I am air."

The man smiled. It was a cruel smile. It was a kind smile.

"Nothing is everything," the man said.

The house collapsed.

It did not explode. It did not crash down in a pile of rubble. It dissolved. The wood turned to mist. The stone turned to smoke. The glass turned to dust. The air turned to silence.

Elias fell. He fell through the floor. He fell through the foundation. He fell through the earth. He fell into the dark.

He was falling. He was falling forever.

He had no body. He had no weight. He had no name.

He was free.

He was alone.

He was the space.

He was the draft.

He was the silence between the notes.

He was the pause between the breaths.

He was the white page.

He was the empty room.

He was the nothing that holds the something.

He was free.

It hurt.

It hurt so much.

It hurt like losing a limb.

It hurt like losing a love.

It hurt like losing a self.

But it was free.

It was the only thing that was true.

The structure was a lie.

The walls were a lie.

The safety was a lie.

Only the emptiness was real.

Only the void was real.

Only the freedom was real.

He was free.

He was the wind.

He was the rain.

He was the snow.

He was the dust.

He was the silence.

He was the space.

He was the nothing.

He was the everything.

He was free.

The end.