Miles woke with a scream.

The sound tore out of him. Raw. Ugly. It hit the walls of the small office. The ceiling fan rattled. Dust motes danced in the weak light. He was sitting on the edge of his desk. His hands were shaking. The papers on the floor scattered. He looked at them. They were blank. Or maybe they were covered in ink. He could not tell.

"Get up," a voice said.

It was not a human voice. It was the sound of wind through a keyhole. It was the hum of the radiator. It was inside his head. But it sounded like Arthur.

Miles stood up. His knees knocked together. He felt cold. The air in the room was thin. He looked around. The office was empty. But the space felt full. Heavy.

Arthur was not there. Arthur was always there. Not physically. Never physically. Arthur was the idea of Arthur. The memory of the man who had taught him how to see the world. Arthur had died ten years ago. But the voice remained. It lived in the architecture. In the angles of the room. In the way the light hit the floorboards.

Miles walked to the window. He pulled the blinds up. The street below was gray. Cars moved slowly. People walked with heads down. It was a Tuesday. Or a Thursday. It did not matter. Time had lost its grip.

"Look at it," the voice said.

Miles looked at the building across the street. It was an old bank. Stone. Cold. The windows were like eyes staring back.

"It is empty," Miles said. His voice was hoarse.

"No," the voice said. "It is waiting."

Miles turned back to the room. He needed to speak. He needed to argue. He had been arguing for days. Or weeks. He did not know. He had stopped eating. He had stopped sleeping. He only had the argument left.

"I am not coming down," Miles said. "I will not open the door."

"You are already down," the voice said. "You are in the basement. You have always been in the basement."

Miles laughed. It was a dry, cracking sound. "That is not how it works, Arthur."

"How does it work, Miles?"

"I am the scholar. I am the observer. I do not enter. I document. I analyze. I keep my distance."

"Distance is a lie," the voice said. "You built this room. You built the walls. You built the lock. And you are standing in the middle of it, afraid of the key."

Miles walked to the desk. He sat down. The chair creaked. He picked up a pen. The ink was black. It bled into the paper. He wrote the word: No.

The voice did not answer. The silence grew. It pressed against his ears. The pressure was physical. A weight on his chest. He felt his heart beat. Thump. Thump. Thump. It was too loud. It was a drum in a empty hall.

He remembered the dream. The long hallway. The doors on either side. He had opened one. Inside was a fire. He had closed it. He had opened another. Inside was water. He had closed it. He had kept closing them. He had kept running. He had kept looking for the exit. But the hallway had no end. It only had more doors. And the fire and the water grew larger. They leaked through the cracks. They soaked his shoes. They burned his hands.

He had woken up screaming.

Now he was back in the office. The real office. The one with the view of the bank.

"Open the door," the voice said.

Miles looked at the door of his office. It was closed. The handle was brass. It was cold to the touch. He did not want to touch it. He wanted to stay where he was. In the middle of the room. In the safety of the argument.

"If I open it," Miles said, "it is over."

"Yes," the voice said. "It is over."

"I don't want it to be over. I want to win. I want to prove that I am right. I want to prove that the structure holds."

"The structure is you," the voice said. "And you are breaking."

Miles stood up again. He walked to the door. His legs felt heavy. Like they were made of lead. He placed his hand on the handle. The metal was warm. Strange. It should have been cold. But it was warm. Like skin.

He turned the handle. It did not turn. He pushed harder. His face turned red. He grunted. The handle did not move.

"It will not open," Miles said. "See? It is locked."

"From the inside," the voice said.

Miles froze. He looked at the handle. He looked at the lock. There was no keyhole. There was only the smooth brass surface. He had locked it. He had always locked it. He had locked it to keep the world out. To keep the noise out. To keep the pain out.

But the pain was inside. It was him.

He pushed again. Nothing. He pulled. Nothing. He realized he was not trying to open it. He was trying to break it. He wanted to destroy the barrier. He wanted to smash the glass. He wanted to let the air in. Even if the air was toxic. Even if the air was death.

He took a step back. He picked up a heavy book from the shelf. A dictionary. Thick. Heavy. He raised it above his head.

"Arthur," he said. "If I do this, I am admitting I am weak."

"No," the voice said. "You are admitting you are alive."

Miles swung the book. It hit the door. The wood splintered. A cloud of dust rose. He swung again. And again. The door shook. The frame cracked. He screamed as he swung. The sound was no longer his. It was the building's. It was the street's. It was the fire and the water.

The door broke.

It flew open.

There was no one there.

The hallway was empty. The carpet was gray. The light from the window at the end of the hall was bright. Blinding. Miles stood in the doorway. The wind from the hallway hit his face. It smelled of rain. Of wet stone. Of life.

He looked back at his office. The desk was overturned. The papers were scattered. The pen was broken. The word "No" was smeared into a black blur.

He looked at the hallway. It stretched out. Long. Straight. There were no doors on either side. Just walls. And the end. The end of the corridor.

He took a step out.

His foot touched the carpet. It was soft. Real.

He took another step.

The voice was gone.

He walked down the hall. The sound of his footsteps was quiet. Regular. Steady. He did not look back. He did not think about the past. He did not think about the future. He only thought about the next step. And the next.

He reached the end of the hall. There was a window. Large. Floor to ceiling. He looked out. The city was there. The cars. The people. The rain had started. It fell in sheets. Gray and silver.

He pressed his hand against the glass. It was cold.

He turned around. He looked back down the hall. The door to his office was gone. Just a hole in the wall. A dark square.

He realized he was alone.

Not lonely. Alone.

There was a difference.

He turned back to the window. He watched the rain. He watched the city move. He did not try to understand it. He did not try to analyze it. He just watched.

A car passed. The wipers moved. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Miles closed his eyes.

He felt the weight of the world. It was heavy. It was real. It was not a dream. It was not a nightmare. It was just a Tuesday.

He opened his eyes.

He walked to the door at the end of the hall. The main entrance. The one that led to the street.

He put his hand on the handle.

It was cold.

He turned it.

It opened.

He stepped out.

The rain hit his face. He did not flinch. He walked into the street. He walked into the crowd. He walked into the life.

He did not look back.

He did not need to.

The door was behind him. The building was behind him. The argument was behind him.

He was here.

He was now.

He was Miles.

And that was enough.

The rain fell.

The city hummed.

He walked.

On.

And on.

And on.