The roof collapsed.

It did not fall. It peeled. Shingles lifted like dead skin, revealing the black void beneath. Then the ceiling. Then the air.

Mara fell.

She did not scream. Screaming required breath. Breath was a luxury she had lost.

She landed on the floor of the attic.

Or what had been the attic.

Now it was a void. A white, silent expanse. No edges. No ceiling. Just white. And the sound of her own blood.

It was not blood.

It was ink.

Dark, viscous ink poured from her chest. It pooled at her feet. It smelled of iron and old paper.

She looked down.

Her hands were gone.

Where her fingers should have been, there were only words. Floating. Drifting. *Gone. Gone. Gone.*

"Stop it," she whispered.

Her voice was a tear. A crack in the white.

A figure stood there.

He was tall. Too tall. His limbs were too long. His face was a blur. A smudge.

"Thomas?" she asked.

He did not answer.

He opened his mouth.

A storm came out.

Not wind. Not rain.

Syllables.

Thousands of them. They hit her like hail.

*Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie.*

She fell to her knees. The ink pooled around her. It was rising.

"I am not lying," she said.

"Are you?"

Thomas stepped closer. His feet did not touch the ground. He hovered.

"You know what you did, Mara."

"I know what I wrote."

"You know what you stole."

She looked at her hands. The words were burning.

*Stolen. Stolen. Stolen.*

"I didn't steal anything," she said. Her voice was thin. A wire.

"You took my life."

"I took your words."

"Same thing."

The white space flickered.

For a second, she saw the library.

Her library. The one in Chicago. The one with the high ceilings and the dust motes dancing in the sunlight.

She was sitting at her desk.

Thomas was standing there.

He had just died.

Not of a heart attack.

Not of a fall.

Of silence.

He had simply stopped speaking.

And when he stopped speaking, the world stopped making sense.

The books on the shelves began to bleed.

Ink.

The same ink.

She had tried to write him back.

She had tried to write his voice.

She had written until her fingers bled.

She had written until the pages turned black.

But he was gone.

And the silence was louder than the words.

Now, in the white, the silence was a physical weight.

It pressed against her skull.

It squeezed her ribs.

"Let me go," she said.

Thomas smiled.

It was a horrible smile.

It stretched too wide.

It showed too many teeth.

"I can't," he said.

"Why?"

"Because you need me."

"I don't need you."

"You do."

He reached out.

His hand was made of text.

Lines of code.

Sentences.

He touched her face.

It felt cold.

It felt sharp.

It cut her.

Ink sprayed from her cheek.

"Remember," he said. "Remember the pain."

"I remember."

"Remember the loss."

"I remember."

"Remember the guilt."

"I remember."

"Then you can't leave."

"Why not?"

"Because the guilt is the anchor."

She looked at the pool of ink.

It was growing.

It was reaching her ankles.

It was reaching her knees.

She tried to move.

She couldn't.

The ink was hardening.

It was turning to stone.

"Thomas," she said.

"Hey."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"I should have listened."

"You didn't listen."

"I'm listening now."

"Too late."

The white space began to shrink.

The edges were closing in.

The sky was falling.

She saw her mother.

Her mother was standing in the corner.

She was wearing her blue dress.

She was holding a cup of tea.

"Mara," her mother said. "Drink this."

Mara looked at the cup.

It was full of ink.

"No," she said.

"Drink it," her mother said. "It will make you whole."

"It will make me empty."

"Empty is safe."

"Empty is dead."

"Dead is quiet."

"Quiet is lonely."

Her mother’s face blurred.

The white space was smaller now.

It was a box.

A coffin.

Thomas was standing over her.

He was holding a pen.

It was a long, black pen.

It looked like a bone.

"I have to do this," he said.

"Why?"

"To save you."

"Save me from what?"

"From yourself."

He raised the pen.

He pointed it at her chest.

At the source of the ink.

"Mara," he said. "Let go."

"I can't."

"You have to."

"I don't want to."

"You don't get to choose."

He plunged the pen into her heart.

There was no pain.

Only release.

The ink stopped flowing.

The white space expanded.

The box broke.

She was free.

Or she was gone.

She didn't know.

She just felt light.

She felt empty.

She felt quiet.

And then, she was nowhere.

***

The paramedics found her in the attic.

She was on the floor.

Her eyes were open.

Her chest was still.

There was a black stain on her shirt.

It looked like ink.

It looked like blood.

"Flatline," one of them said.

"Come on, Mara," the other said. "Breathe."

She did not breathe.

They worked for an hour.

Two hours.

Three hours.

They couldn't bring her back.

Her name was in the newspaper the next day.

A small obituary.

*Mara Whitmore, 34, author, found dead in her home. Cause of death: cardiac arrest. Survived by her brother, Thomas.*

Thomas read the obituary.

He sat in his chair.

He held the paper.

He did not cry.

He did not scream.

He just looked at the words.

*Survived by her brother.*

He laughed.

It was a dry sound.

A crack in the dry earth.

He stood up.

He walked to the window.

The sky was grey.

It was raining.

He looked down at the street.

People were walking.

They were alive.

They were breathing.

They were talking.

He closed the window.

The room was silent.

He walked to the desk.

There was a book there.

Her book.

The last one she had written.

He opened it.

The pages were blank.

All of them.

He turned the page.

Blank.

Another page.

Blank.

He turned the last page.

There was one word.

Written in black ink.

*Free.*

He stared at it.

He picked up the book.

He held it to his chest.

He felt nothing.

He felt no grief.

He felt no guilt.

He felt no love.

He felt only the silence.

And the silence was enough.

He closed the book.

He put it on the shelf.

He turned off the light.

The dark came in.

It was soft.

It was warm.

It was quiet.

He lay down.

He closed his eyes.

He waited.

For the white.

For the void.

For the end.

But it did not come.

The dark stayed.

And he stayed.

And the silence stayed.

And that was all.

That was all.

That was all.