The bell tolls. You count. One. Two. Three. You are in the scriptorium. The smell is ink. And damp wool. And old paper. Your hands shake. You hold the quill. It is cold. It is bone. Or horn. It does not matter. It is hard.

Thomas is gone.

He left an hour ago. He did not look back. He did not say goodbye. He walked out into the fog. The fog that eats the world. You watched him go. From the high window. He was small. He was a speck. Then he was nothing.

You are the scribe. You are the junior. You copy. You transcribe. You do not question. You do not think. That is the rule. Master Aldous says so.

"Sit," he says.

He does not raise his voice. He never does. He stands by the hearth. The fire is low. It is blue. It is hungry. He watches you. His eyes are grey. Like the stone outside. Like the winter.

"You have a gift," he says.

You nod. You swallow. It is dry in your throat.

"Thomas had a gift," he says.

You look down. Your hands are on the desk. The wood is smooth. It is worn. It holds the grooves of a hundred years. You see the scratches. You see the stains.

"Where is he?" you ask.

Your voice is small. It is thin. It disappears in the draft.

Aldous smiles. It is not a kind smile. It is a thin smile. It is a crack in a wall.

"He is in the book," he says.

You look at the book. It is open. The pages are blank. They are white. They are waiting.

"No," you say.

"You are a good man," Aldous says. "You are pure. You are clean. You have not touched the world. You have not tasted the blood. You are ready."

He steps forward. He is tall. He is thin. His robe is black. It is heavy. It drags on the floor.

"Give me the ink," he says.

You reach for the pot. It is black. It is deep. It looks like a hole. It looks like a well. You dip the quill. You feel the weight. It is heavy. It is wet.

"Write your name," he says.

You hesitate. Your hand stops. The ink drips. A single drop. It hits the page. It spreads. It blooms. It is black. It is red. It is dark.

"Write," he says.

You write.

*Elias.*

The letter burns. It is hot. It is cold. It is both. You pull your hand back. You gasp. You look at your fingers. They are white. They are grey. They are turning to ash.

No.

You look again. They are normal. They are flesh. They are blood. You are alive.

Aldous nods. He takes the quill. He takes it from your hand. He takes it gently. He takes it with care.

"Thomas wrote his name," he says. "And he was gone. And he was here. And he was everywhere. He is in the words. He is in the lines. He is in the space between the letters."

He turns the page. He turns it slowly. The paper rustles. It sounds like leaves. It sounds like bones.

"You will write for us," he says. "We need a voice. We need a hand. We need a mind that is free. A mind that is open. A mind that is yours."

You look at the door. It is closed. It is locked. You can hear the latch. It is iron. It is cold.

"Is this a punishment?" you ask.

Aldous laughs. It is a soft sound. It is like wind. It is like a sigh.

"It is a gift," he says. "Thomas was greedy. He wanted to be free. He wanted to be out there. In the rain. In the snow. In the dirt. He wanted to be a man. And the book ate him. It took him. It kept him."

He leans closer. He smells of dust. He smells of time.

"But you," he says. "You are not greedy. You are content. You are here. You are with me. You are with the work. You will not be eaten. You will be preserved. You will be eternal."

You look at the window. The fog is thicker now. It is pressing against the glass. It is pushing in. You can see shapes in it. You can see faces. They are pale. They are hollow. They are looking at you.

One face is Thomas.

He is smiling. He is not smiling. He is screaming. His mouth is wide. His eyes are wide. He is trapped. He is stuck. He is in the page.

You look away. You look at Aldous. Aldous is watching you. He is patient. He is kind. He is cruel.

"Write the first line," he says.

You dip the quill. You dip it deep. You lift it. You hover it over the page. Your hand is steady. Your heart is not. Your heart is a drum. It is beating fast. It is beating hard. It is beating for Thomas. It is beating for you.

You think of Thomas. You think of his laugh. You think of his hands. He used to hold your hand. He used to tell you stories. He used to say, *We will leave. We will go to the city. We will be free.*

He was wrong.

He was right.

You do not know.

You write.

The ink flows. It is smooth. It is easy. It is sweet. It is bitter. It is both.

*The fog came in from the sea.*

You write.

*It covered the stones. It covered the trees. It covered the men.*

You write.

*It covered the truth. It covered the lie. It covered the name.*

Aldous watches. He does not move. He does not blink. He is a statue. He is a shadow. He is a ghost.

You write.

The words come. They are not yours. They are not his. They are the fog’s. They are the book’s. They are the dark’s.

You feel a pull. It is in your chest. It is in your head. It is in your hands. It is a hook. It is a chain. It is a rope.

It pulls you in.

It pulls you down.

It pulls you deep.

You see Thomas. He is there. He is on the page. He is in the ink. He is in the line. He is reaching out. He is reaching for you.

"Help me," he says.

His voice is in your head. It is clear. It is sharp. It is real.

"Help me," he says.

You want to help him. You want to pull him out. You want to tear the page. You want to break the quill. You want to burn the book.

You want to be free.

You stop writing.

The quill hovers. The ink drips. A drop falls. It hits the page. It makes a hole. It makes a tear. It makes a wound.

Aldous does not move.

He does not scold.

He does not shout.

He smiles.

He smiles wider.

"You see," he says. "You are afraid. You are weak. You are human. And that is why you are perfect."

He takes the quill. He takes it from your hand. He takes it with force. He twists your wrist. You gasp. You fall back. You hit the chair. The wood cracks. The chair breaks.

You are on the floor.

The floor is cold. The floor is hard. The floor is stone.

Aldous stands over you. He is holding the quill. He is holding the book. He is holding the power.

"Get up," he says. "Sit down. Write."

You look at him. You look into his eyes. You see the truth. You see the lie. You see the monster.

He is not the master.

He is the prisoner.

He is in the book.

He has been in the book for years. He has been in the book for decades. He is the voice. He is the hand. He is the mind.

He is Thomas.

No.

He is the one who took Thomas.

He is the one who is eating you.

You look at your hands. They are white. They are grey. They are turning to ash.

No.

They are normal.

They are flesh.

They are blood.

You are alive.

You are here.

You are Elias.

You stand up. Your legs are weak. Your knees are shaking. You stand up.

You look at Aldous. You look at the book. You look at the window.

The fog is outside.

The fog is inside.

You pick up the quill.

You dip it.

You write.

*The man in the black robe smiled.*

You write.

*He was not a man.*

You write.

*He was a shadow.*

You write.

*He was a lie.*

You write.

*He was me.*

The ink flows. It is fast. It is wild. It is free. It is yours.

Aldous screams.

He screams. It is a high sound. It is a thin sound. It is a broken sound.

He falls.

He falls to the floor. He is small. He is flat. He is a shadow. He is a stain.

He is gone.

You look at the page. The words are there. The words are black. The words are red. The words are dark.

You look at your hands. They are normal. They are flesh. They are blood.

You look at the door. It is open.

The fog is coming in.

You walk to the door. You walk to the fog. You walk to the dark.

You walk out.

You do not look back.

You do not stop.

You do not think.

You walk.

The fog takes you.

The fog keeps you.

The fog is you.