You dream of the river. It is not the water you see from the bridge. It is the water in your lungs. You are not swimming. You are sinking. The current is cold and indifferent. It does not care about your rank. It does not care about your name. It only pulls. You try to tread water. Your arms are heavy. The lead vest is too tight. It presses against your ribs. It is a familiar weight. You have worn it before. Not for diving. For punishment.

You wake. The room is small. The walls are damp. The air smells of coal smoke and old paper. You sit on the edge of the bed. Your hands shake. You look at them. They are red. The knuckles are swollen. The skin is cracked. You flex your fingers. The pain is sharp. It is good. Pain means you are alive. Pain means the cold is not inside you yet.

You stand. The floor is cold. You put on your boots. They are stiff. The leather is dry. You pull on your coat. It is too thin. The wind cuts through it. You leave the room. The corridor is long. The lights are dim. They flicker. The shadows stretch. You walk. Your feet do not make a sound. The soles are worn thin. You pass the guard post. The guard looks away. He sees your face. He knows what it is. He does not speak. You do not speak. This is the rule.

You go to the yard. The sky is gray. The iron gate is rusted. The bars are high. The ground is wet. There is a puddle near the wall. You look at it. Your reflection is distorted. It breaks. You step over the puddle. You do not want to break. You want to be whole. But you are broken. You have been broken for months.

The yard is empty. The other prisoners are inside. They sleep. Or they pretend to sleep. You stand by the wall. The brick is cold. You press your back against it. You close your eyes. You listen. The wind blows. It sounds like a whisper. It sounds like a warning. You open your eyes. The sun rises. It is weak. It does not warm you.

You go back inside. The cell is dark. You sit on the bench. You take out your notebook. The pages are yellow. The ink is faded. You write. Your hand is steady now. You write the date. You write the time. You write the name of the man who ordered the strike. You write the name of the man who died. You write the name of the river. You write the depth. You write the temperature. You write the flow rate. You write the pressure. You write the force. You know these numbers. They are your friends. They do not lie. They do not judge. They are true.

The door opens. A man walks in. He wears a black coat. His face is pale. His eyes are dark. He is the Inspector. He does not look at you. He looks at the wall. He sits on the chair across from you. The chair creaks. He takes out a cigarette. He lights it. The smoke rises. It curls. It disappears. He does not speak. You do not speak. The silence is thick. It is heavy. It presses on your chest.

He leans forward. He puts the cigarette down. He takes out a file. It is thick. It is brown. He opens it. He looks at the papers. He looks at you. He says nothing. You look at your hands. They are still. You are calm. You are empty.

The Inspector stands. He walks to the door. He stops. He turns. He looks at you one last time. His face is soft. There is a shadow in his eyes. It is not anger. It is pity. Or perhaps it is fear. He does not know. You do not know. He leaves. The door closes. The lock clicks. The sound is final.

You wait. The minutes pass. They are slow. They are long. You count them. One. Two. Three. You count the cracks in the ceiling. You count the drops of water from the leak. You count the beats of your heart. You are still. You are calm. You are ready.

The door opens again. Two men enter. They are large. They wear gray uniforms. Their faces are hard. Their hands are red. They are the same men who beat you last week. They are the same men who will beat you today. They do not speak. They grab your arms. Their grip is tight. It hurts. You do not resist. You let them pull you up. You let them drag you. You walk. Your feet drag on the floor. The sound is wet.

They take you to the office. The room is big. The walls are bare. There is a desk. There is a chair. There is a table. On the table is a rope. It is thick. It is black. It looks soft. It is not soft. It is hard. It is cold.

The men push you to the table. You fall. Your knees hit the wood. The pain is sharp. You look up. The Inspector is there. He stands by the wall. He watches. He does not move. He does not blink. His face is blank. He is a mirror. He reflects nothing. He is the system. He is the machine. He is the cold.

The men tie your hands. The rope cuts into your wrists. The pain is bright. It is white. You do not cry. You do not beg. You look at the Inspector. You see his eyes. They are empty. You see his mouth. It is closed. You see his hands. They are still. He is not human. He is a function. He is a gear. He is a wheel.

One of the men pulls you up. They put the rope around your neck. It is tight. It is cold. It chokes you. You cannot breathe. Your vision blurs. The edges go black. The center remains. You see the ceiling. You see the light. You see the Inspector. He is still there. He is watching. He is waiting.

You stop fighting. You stop breathing. You let them pull. You let them lift you. Your feet leave the ground. The world spins. The sound fades. The pain fades. The cold remains. You are in the river. You are sinking. The water is warm. It is soft. It holds you. You do not struggle. You do not swim. You let go. You let go of the land. You let go of the air. You let go of the name. You let go of the rank. You let go of the truth.

You are gone.

The Inspector writes in the file. He uses a pen. The ink flows. He writes the time of death. He writes the cause of death. He writes the name. He signs the paper. He closes the file. He puts it in the drawer. The drawer is locked. The key is in his pocket. He takes it out. He puts it back. He stands. He looks at the body. It is still. It is quiet. It is done.

He walks out. The door closes. The sound is final. The room is empty. The air is still. The light is dim. The chair is empty. The table is bare. The rope is gone. The blood is gone. The truth is gone.

You are the river. You are the water. You are the cold. You are the silence. You are the end.

The Inspector goes to the station. The station is big. The walls are stone. The floor is marble. The light is bright. It is harsh. It hurts the eyes. The men in uniform stand in rows. They are silent. They are still. They are waiting. The Inspector walks past them. They do not look. They do not move. They are part of the wall. They are part of the machine.

He goes to his office. The door is heavy. The wood is dark. He closes it. The lock clicks. The sound is final. He sits at the desk. The desk is big. The chair is high. He puts his hands on the desk. They are still. He looks at the window. The view is clear. The sky is blue. The sun is bright. The world is alive. It is moving. It is turning. It does not care. It does not know. It continues.

He takes out his notebook. The pages are white. The ink is black. He writes. His hand is steady. He writes the date. He writes the time. He writes the name. He writes the depth. He writes the temperature. He writes the flow rate. He writes the pressure. He writes the force. He knows these numbers. They are his friends. They do not lie. They do not judge. They are true.

He stops. He looks at the words. They are clear. They are sharp. They are true. He closes the notebook. He puts it in the drawer. The drawer is locked. The key is in his pocket. He takes it out. He puts it back. He stands. He walks to the door. He opens it. The light is bright. The air is cold. He walks out. He walks into the world. He walks into the silence. He walks into the end.

The river flows. The water is clear. The water is cold. The water is deep. The water is quiet. The water does not stop. The water does not turn. The water does not look back. The water goes on. The water goes on. The water goes on.