The river is gray.

You walk along the bank. Boots are wet. Mud clings to your boots. It is cold. The air bites your face. You are in London. It is 1912. The factories smoke. The smoke hangs low. It smells of coal and rot. You are Elias. You are a stranger here.

You came from the village. You left your sister, Clara. You left her in the snow. She was small. She was quiet. She watched you go. She did not cry. She held your hand until the train whistled. Then she let go.

You have been here for three months. You work in the shipyards. Your hands are cracked. Your back is broken. You sleep in a room above a pub. The bed is hard. You dream of the river back home. It was blue then. It was clear. You could see the stones. Now it is a slurry of mud and oil.

You think of Clara often. You think she is waiting. You think she is still holding your hand. You know she is not. She is alone. She is old now. Time moves fast in the city. Time moves slow in the village.

You have a task. You must find the Threshold.

It is a place in the city. They say it is a door. It is not a real door. It is a place where the past and present touch. It is where the dead walk. It is where the lost return. You are looking for it. You need to find it. You need to bring Clara back.

You walk down the street. The street is wet. Puddles reflect the gas lamps. The light is yellow. It is sickly. People pass you. They are dark. They are shapes. They do not see you. You are invisible.

You turn a corner. You see a man. He is tall. He wears a long coat. He is Mr. Thorne. He is your boss. He is also your friend. He is the one who told you about the Threshold. He is the one who sent you here.

He stands by the wall. He smokes a pipe. The smoke curls up. He looks at you. He does not smile. He says nothing.

You stop. You stare at him. He is the key. He is the lock. He is the trap.

You remember the day he hired you. He was kind. He offered you money. He promised you a way home. He said the Threshold was real. He said it could undo things. He said it could bring back what was lost.

You believed him.

You walk closer. The mud squelches under your feet. You feel a fear. It is cold. It is in your stomach. You know he is lying. You have always known. But you need him to be true. You need the lie to be real.

He takes out a match. He lights the pipe. The flame is orange. It is warm. It is beautiful. It is false.

You do not speak. You cannot speak. Your mouth is dry. Your tongue is thick.

He looks at you again. His eyes are hard. They are black. They are empty.

You realize he is not a man. He is a shadow. He is a part of the city. He is the hunger of the place. He has been here for a long time. He has eaten many souls. He has eaten your hope.

You want to run. Your legs are heavy. You are frozen. The cold is inside you. It is a stone. It is an anchor.

You think of Clara. You think of her face. You think of her hands. They are rough. They are cold. She is in the village. She is waiting for a brother who will not come.

You make a choice.

You will not run. You will not hide. You will stand. You will look at him. You will break the spell.

You step forward. The mud is deep. It pulls at your feet. You pull free. You walk toward him. He watches you. He does not move.

You reach out. You touch his face.

It is cold. It is like ice. It is like death.

You pull your hand back. You look at your fingers. They are black. They are rotting. The touch has changed you. You are part of the city now. You are part of the hunger.

You turn away. You walk back to the street. The gas lamps flicker. The smoke is thicker. It chokes you. You cough. Your lungs burn.

You continue to walk. You do not go home. You do not go to the shipyard. You walk toward the river.

The river is loud. It roars. It is angry. It is alive.

You stand on the bank. The water is black. It reflects the sky. The sky is dark. There are no stars.

You look at your reflection.

It is not you.

It is an old man. He has a long beard. He has hollow eyes. He is wearing your coat. He is holding a pipe. He is Mr. Thorne.

You are not Elias. You are not the immigrant. You are not the brother.

You are the ghost. You have been the ghost all along.

Clara was never in the village. Clara was in the city. She was the one who walked behind you. She was the one who watched. She was the one who waited.

She is gone.

She is in the river.

You look at the water. You see her.

She is there. She is floating. Her hair is wet. Her face is pale. She is looking at you. She is smiling.

It is a sad smile. It is a final smile.

You understand.

The Threshold is not a door. It is a mirror. It is the river. It is the self.

You came here to find her. You came here to save her. But you could not save her. You could not save yourself.

The cycle is complete.

The dead do not stay dead. They return. They wear your face. They wear your name. They take your place.

You are the sacrifice.

You are the fuel.

You step into the water.

It is cold. It is numbing. It is silent.

The water rises. It covers your feet. It covers your knees. It covers your waist.

You do not fight.

You let go.

The darkness closes in.

The smoke settles.

The city sleeps.

The river flows on.

You are gone.

You are here.

The water is still.

The reflection is still.

The old man smiles.

He lights his pipe.

The flame is orange.

The flame is warm.

The flame is false.

You are the brother.

You are the stranger.

You are the ghost.

The river is gray.

The mud is deep.

The air is cold.

You are home.

You are lost.

The cycle turns.

The wheel spins.

The stone sinks.

The light fades.

The smoke rises.

The city breathes.

You are part of it.

You are part of the hunger.

You are part of the silence.

The river flows.

The river flows.

The river flows.

You watch from the bank.

You are the watcher.

You are the watch.

The night is long.

The night is cold.

The night is endless.

You wait.

You wait for the next one.

You wait for the next stranger.

You wait for the next ghost.

The train whistles.

The steam rises.

The tracks are wet.

The doors open.

A young man steps out.

He is wet. He is cold. He is lost.

He looks at the river.

He looks at you.

He does not see you.

You are invisible.

You smile.

You hold out your hand.

He holds it.

The train whistles again.

The doors close.

He walks away.

He is gone.

You are alone.

The river is gray.

The smoke is thick.

The light is yellow.

The night is dark.

You are still here.

You are still waiting.

The cycle begins again.

The stone sinks.

The light fades.

The smoke rises.

The city breathes.

You are part of it.

You are part of the hunger.

You are part of the silence.

The river flows.

The river flows.

The river flows.

You are the brother.

You are the stranger.

You are the ghost.

The water is still.

The reflection is still.

The old man smiles.

He lights his pipe.

The flame is orange.

The flame is warm.

The flame is false.

You are home.

You are lost.

The cycle turns.

The wheel spins.

The stone sinks.

The light fades.

The smoke rises.

The city breathes.

You are part of it.

You are part of the hunger.

You are part of the silence.

The river flows.

The river flows.

The river flows.