The rain tapped against the leaded glass. It was a steady, rhythmic sound. Like a clock. But a clock with no hands. Thomas sat in the high chair. The leather was cold. He wore a grey suit. It fit him too well. Or perhaps he had shrunk. He looked at the desk. The desk was oak. It was ancient. It held only one object. A book. The cover was black. The pages were white. There were no words on the cover. There were no words on the pages. Not yet. Thomas opened it. The air smelled of dust and old paper. It smelled of time. He was a scholar. He studied the past. He believed in facts. He did not believe in ghosts. But the book felt heavy. It felt alive.

The door opened. A man entered. His name was Elias. He was old. His hair was white. His eyes were sharp. They were the color of steel. He did not look at Thomas. He looked at the book. He walked to the desk. He did not sit. He stood. He placed his hands on the wood. The wood creaked.

"You are here," Elias said.

"I am here," Thomas replied.

"You have the book."

"I have the book."

"Good."

Elias turned. He looked at Thomas. There was no smile. There was no anger. There was only a weight. A heavy, silent weight. It pressed against Thomas’s chest. Thomas felt it. He felt the pressure. He tried to breathe. It was hard.

"Why did you call me?" Thomas asked.

"You know why."

"I do not know why."

"You do."

Thomas looked down. He looked at his hands. They were trembling. He clenched them. He unclenched them. The book lay open. The pages were still blank. He waited. He waited for the words to appear. They did not. He waited for the ghost. It did not come. He was alone. But he was not alone.

"The war is coming," Elias said.

"The war is here," Thomas said.

Elias nodded. He nodded slowly. It was a small movement. But it meant everything. It meant the end. It meant the beginning. It meant the middle. It meant the silence.

"You must write," Elias said.

"Write what?"

"The truth."

"Whose truth?"

"Your truth."

Thomas laughed. It was a dry sound. It was a dead sound. It echoed in the room. It bounced off the walls. It came back to him. It was his own voice. It was not his voice.

"I am a scholar," Thomas said. "I do not write lies. I do not write truths. I write records. I write facts. I write dates. I write names. I write numbers. I do not write feelings."

"Feelings are facts," Elias said.

"No. They are not."

"They are. They are the only facts that matter."

Thomas looked at the book. The blank pages stared back. They were empty. They were full. They were waiting. They were hungry. Thomas felt a fear. It was a cold fear. It was a sharp fear. It cut into him. It cut deep. He did not know why he was afraid. He did not know what he was afraid of. He was afraid of the silence. He was afraid of the rain. He was afraid of the book. He was afraid of Elias.

"I cannot do this," Thomas said.

"You can."

"I will not."

"You must."

Thomas stood up. The chair scraped against the floor. The sound was loud. It was harsh. It broke the silence. He walked to the window. He looked out. The street was empty. The cars were gone. The people were gone. Only the rain remained. It washed the world clean. It washed the world away. It washed everything away.

"I trusted you," Thomas said.

"You trusted me."

"I trusted the book."

"The book is empty."

"The book is full."

"Of what?"

"Of us."

Elias did not answer. He stood still. He was a statue. He was a shadow. He was a memory. He was a ghost. Thomas turned back. He looked at the desk. He looked at the book. He walked back. He sat down. He placed his hands on the desk. He placed his hands on the book. He did not open it. He closed it. He closed it tightly. He held it. He held it like a child. He held it like a weapon. He held it like a lie.

"Leave," Thomas said.

"I cannot leave."

"Then stay."

"I will stay."

Thomas looked at him. He looked into his eyes. He saw himself. He saw his own face. He saw his own fear. He saw his own shame. He saw his own guilt. He saw his own death. He looked away. He looked at the book. He opened it again. He looked at the pages. They were still blank. They were still white. They were still silent.

"I am tired," Thomas said.

"I know."

"I am afraid."

"I know."

"I am alone."

"I know."

Thomas picked up the pen. The pen was black. The ink was dark. He held the pen. He held it tight. His hand shook. He tried to write. He tried to form a letter. He tried to make a mark. The pen did not move. The ink did not flow. The page did not change. He was stuck. He was stuck in the moment. He was stuck in the fear. He was stuck in the silence.

Elias spoke. His voice was soft. It was gentle. It was kind. It was cruel.

"You are not alone," Elias said.

Thomas looked up. He looked at Elias. He saw the truth. He saw the lie. He saw the mirror. He saw the mask. He saw the face. It was his own face. It was Elias’s face. It was the book’s face. It was the war’s face. It was the rain’s face. It was the world’s face.

"I am alone," Thomas whispered.

"No," Elias said. "You are never alone. You are always with the truth. You are always with the word. You are always with the mark. You are always with the name."

Thomas dropped the pen. It clattered on the desk. The sound was sharp. It was final. It was the end. It was the beginning. It was the middle. It was the silence. Thomas looked at the book. The pages were still blank. But they were not empty. They were full. They were full of Thomas. They were full of Elias. They were full of the rain. They were full of the war. They were full of the fear. They were full of the love. They were full of the hate. They were full of the life. They were full of the death.

Thomas closed the book. He pushed it away. He stood up. He walked to the door. He opened it. The rain poured in. The water rushed over the floor. It soaked his shoes. It soaked his trousers. It soaked his soul. He walked out. He did not look back. He did not look at Elias. He did not look at the book. He did not look at the desk. He did not look at the window. He did not look at the wall. He did not look at the floor. He did not look at the air. He did not look at the light. He did not look at the dark. He did not look at the past. He did not look at the future. He did not look at the present. He looked at nothing. He looked at everything. He looked at the rain.

The rain was cold. The rain was hard. The rain was fast. The rain was loud. The rain was strong. The rain was weak. The rain was alive. The rain was dead. The rain was here. The rain was gone.

Thomas walked into the street. He walked into the storm. He walked into the night. He walked into the war. He walked into the fire. He walked into the ash. He walked into the dust. He walked into the silence. He walked into the void. He walked into the end. He walked into the beginning. He walked into the middle. He walked into the now. He walked into the here. He walked into the there. He walked into the when. He walked into the who. He walked into the what. He walked into the why. He walked into the how. He walked into the where. He walked into the who. He walked into the I.

The book remained on the desk. The pen lay on the floor. The ink spread. It formed a shape. It formed a word. It formed a name. It formed a truth. It formed a lie. It formed a mark. It formed a scar. It formed a wound. It formed a healing. It formed a memory. It formed a forgetting. It formed a remembering. It formed a forgetting. It formed a silence.

Elias sat down. He picked up the pen. He picked up the book. He opened it. He looked at the pages. They were not blank. They were full. They were full of Thomas. They were full of the rain. They were full of the war. They were full of the fear. They were full of the love. They were full of the hate. They were full of the life. They were full of the death.

Elias closed the book. He held it. He held it like a child. He held it like a weapon. He held it like a lie. He held it like a truth. He held it like a life. He held it like a death. He held it like a memory. He held it like a forgetting. He held it like a remembering. He held it like a silence.

The rain stopped. The sun came out. The light shone. The light was bright. The light was warm. The light was soft. The light was hard. The light was fast. The light was slow. The light was strong. The light was weak. The light was alive. The light was dead. The light was here. The light was gone.

Elias opened the door. He walked out. He walked into the light. He walked into the sun. He walked into the day. He walked into the peace. He walked into the quiet. He walked into the calm. He walked into the stillness. He walked into the silence.

The book was empty. The book was full. The book was here. The book was gone. The book was Thomas. The book was Elias. The book was the war. The book was the rain. The book was the light. The book was the dark. The book was the life. The book was the death. The book was the truth. The book was the lie. The book was the word. The book was the name. The book was the mark. The book was the scar. The book was the wound. The book was the healing. The book was the memory. The book was the forgetting. The book was the remembering. The book was the silence.

The rain returned. The rain was soft. The rain was gentle. The rain was kind. The rain was cruel. The rain was cold. The rain was warm. The rain was fast. The rain was slow. The rain was strong. The rain was weak. The rain was alive. The rain was dead. The rain was here. The rain was gone.

Thomas was gone. Elias was gone. The book was gone. The desk was gone. The room was gone. The house was gone. The city was gone. The world was gone. The rain was gone. The silence was gone. The truth was gone. The lie was gone. The word was gone. The name was gone. The mark was gone. The scar was gone. The wound was gone. The healing was gone. The memory was gone. The forgetting was gone. The remembering was gone.

Only the rain remained. Only the silence remained. Only the truth remained. Only the lie remained. Only the word remained. Only the name remained. Only the mark remained. Only the scar remained. Only the wound remained. Only the healing remained. Only the memory remained. Only the forgetting remained. Only the remembering remained.

The rain tapped against the glass. It was a steady, rhythmic sound. Like a clock. But a clock with no hands. The book sat on the desk. The pages were white. There were no words on the cover. There were no words on the pages. Not yet. The air smelled of dust and old paper. It smelled of time. The war was over. The war had begun. The war was here. The war was gone. The war was now. The war was always. The war was never. The war was us. The war was them. The war was it. The war was nothing. The war was everything.

Thomas was dead. Elias was dead. The book was dead. The rain was dead. The silence was dead. The truth was dead. The lie was dead. The word was dead. The name was dead. The mark was dead. The scar was dead. The wound was dead. The healing was dead. The memory was dead. The forgetting was dead. The remembering was dead.

The rain tapped against the glass. It was a steady, rhythmic sound. Like a clock. But a clock with no hands. The book sat on the desk. The pages were white. There were no words on the cover. There were no words on the pages. Not yet. The air smelled of dust and old paper. It smelled of time. The war was over. The war had begun. The war was here. The war was gone. The war was now. The war was always. The war was never. The war was us. The war was them. The war was it. The war was nothing. The war was everything.