The smell of rot was the first thing. It clung to the wool of my coat, a damp, sweet stench that no amount of scrubbing could lift. I stood on the pier in Ashford, watching the train pull away. It was a small train. A black ribbon of smoke uncoiling into the gray morning. I watched until it was gone. Until the tracks were just iron lines in the mud. Then I turned back to the shop.

My name is Thomas. I am a man of small things. I mend boots. I stitch tears in leather. I keep the town together by fixing its shoes. It is quiet work. It is good work. I like the smell of the glue. It is sharp and clean. It smells of industry. It smells of progress.

The shop was cold. The steam pipes ticked. I lit the stove. I put on the apron. The leather was stiff. I began to work.

That was before the change. That was before I saw the shadow in the meat.

I had a customer. A young man. Pale. He wore a coat that was too big for him. He sat on the bench by the door. He did not speak. He just watched me. His eyes were dark. Deep wells. I did not like them. I looked away. I cut a piece of hide. I measured the heel.

"Is the bread ready?" he asked. His voice was soft. Like dry leaves.

I looked up. "What?"

"The bread. In the back room. Is it ready?"

I frowned. I do not sell bread. I sell boots. "I have no bread, sir. I have leather."

He smiled. It was a thin smile. A crack in the wall. "You have the smell of it. On your hands. You have been touching it. You have been eating it."

I wiped my hands on my apron. My hands were covered in glue. Dried and cracked. "This is glue," I said. "It smells sweet. That is all."

He nodded. He stood up. He left. He did not pay for the boot I was mending. I let him go. I should not have. I should have stopped him. But I was afraid of the smell. I was afraid of the way he looked at me. Like I was a piece of meat.

The days passed. The town changed. The factories grew. The smoke got thicker. The air tasted of metal. People stopped looking at each other. They looked at the ground. They looked at their hands. They looked at the food.

I started to see it. The food. It was not just food. It was a mirror.

I bought an apple. A red apple. Shiny. Perfect. I bit into it. The juice ran down my chin. It tasted of dirt. It tasted of old blood. I spat it out. The apple was still there. But it was wrong. It was pulsing. A faint beat. Like a heart.

I threw it away. I bought more. I ate everything. I ate the meat. I ate the bread. I ate the cheese. And I saw them. In every bite. Faces. Hands. The faces of the people I knew. The faces of the people I had forgotten.

I saw Mrs. Gable. She made the best pies in town. Her face was in the crust. Her hands were in the filling. I ate her. I swallowed her. And I felt her warmth in my belly. I felt her love. It was not love. It was hunger. It was a trap.

I ran to the river. The river was brown. It flowed slow. I knelt down. I dipped my hands in the water. The water was warm. It pulsed. I pulled my hands out. They were red. Stained. Like meat.

I looked at my hands. They were not mine. They were hers. They were everyone's.

I went back to the shop. I locked the door. I did not open it. I sat in the dark. I waited.

The knocking started.

It was not a fist. It was a knuckle. A soft tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Thomas."

I did not move. I held my breath.

"Thomas, open the door. It is cold."

It was the boy. The pale one. The one with the coat.

"Go away," I whispered.

"Open the door. I have something for you. A gift."

I knew what the gift was. I knew because I felt it. It was in my teeth. It was in my tongue. I wanted it. I wanted it so badly. It was a hunger that did not end. It was a hole in my chest. A black hole.

I stood up. My legs shook. I walked to the door. My hands were trembling. I reached for the handle. The handle was warm. It was wet.

I opened the door.

The boy was there. He was not alone. He was with others. A woman. An old man. A child. They stood in a line. In the fog. They did not speak. They just watched.

The boy held out his hand. In his palm was a piece of meat. Raw. Red. Steaming.

"Take it," he said.

I looked at the meat. It moved. It twisted. It was a hand. A small hand. A child's hand.

I wanted it. I wanted to eat it. I wanted to taste the fear. I wanted to taste the life.

My hand moved. I did not tell it to move. It moved on its own. It reached out. It grabbed the meat.

The boy smiled. The woman smiled. The old man smiled.

I put the meat in my mouth.

It was the best thing I had ever tasted. It tasted of freedom. It tasted of truth. It tasted of them.

I chewed. I swallowed.

And then I saw.

I saw the shop. From the outside. I saw myself. Standing in the doorway. Eating. I saw the boy. He was not a boy. He was a mirror. He was a piece of me. He was the part of me that was hungry.

I saw the town. The factories. The smoke. It was not smoke. It was breath. The town was breathing. And we were the lungs.

I saw the river. It was not water. It was time. It was a circle. We were not moving forward. We were moving in a circle. Eating ourselves. Growing fat on our own flesh. And then dying. And then eating again.

I tried to spit it out. I tried to scream. But I had no voice. I had no mouth. I was the meat. I was the meal.

The boy stepped closer. He took my arm. His grip was strong. His hands were cold.

"Come with me," he said. "There is more. There is always more."

I went with him. I did not fight. I was tired. I was full. I was empty.

We walked into the fog. The fog was thick. It was white. It was the color of bone.

I looked back at the shop. The door was closed. The lights were on. I saw a figure inside. It was me. It was mending a boot. It was happy. It was blind.

I turned away. I followed the boy. We walked into the dark.

The meat in my belly was warm. It was beating.

I realized then. I had not been a man. I had been a mouth. A mouth waiting to be filled. A mouth waiting to be fed.

And I was not alone. I was part of the machine. I was a gear. I was a tooth.

The boy stopped. He pointed to the ground. There was a pool of water. It was black. It was still.

"Look," he said.

I looked.

In the water, I saw my face. But it was not my face. It was a face I had seen before. A face from a long time ago. A face from a life before this life.

It was a child's face. A boy. With a coat that was too big.

I touched the water. The ripples spread. The face broke. And then it came back.

I understood.

I was the boy. I had always been the boy. I had eaten myself. I had died. I had been born. I had eaten myself.

It was a cycle. A wheel. A river that never ended.

I could not stop it. I did not want to stop it. It was the only thing that made sense. It was the only thing that was real.

The boy smiled. He reached into his pocket. He pulled out a knife. It was small. It was clean.

"Time to mend," he said.

He handed me the knife.

I took it. My hand did not shake. I felt calm. I felt strong. I felt part of something larger.

I looked at the boy. I looked at the knife. I looked at the dark.

I closed my eyes.

I waited.

The cold was coming. The cold was good. It was the end of the heat. It was the end of the hunger.

I opened my eyes.

The boy was gone.

I was alone.

I was in the shop.

The boot was on the bench. The tear was open.

I picked up the needle. I threaded it. I began to stitch.

The leather was stiff. The thread was strong.

I worked.

The smell of the glue was sharp.

I did not look at the door.

I did not look at the window.

I just worked.

I mended the boot.

It was a good boot.

It was strong.

It was ready.

I put it on the shelf.

I waited for the next customer.

I waited for the smell.

I waited for the hunger.

I am Thomas.

I am a man of small things.

I keep the town together.

I mend the tears.

I mend the holes.

I am the needle.

I am the thread.

I am the stitch.

And I will not stop.

I will not stop.

I will not stop.

The river flows.

The meat waits.

The mouth opens.

I am ready.

I am always ready.

The glue dries.

The leather holds.

The loop closes.

The loop closes.

The loop closes.