The seed packet was torn.

It lay on the laminate counter, a strip of brown paper frayed at the edges. Inside, the cress seeds were gone. Or rather, they were everywhere. A fine, dust-like layer coated the sink. It coated the faucet. It coated my hands.

I did not blink.

My name is Arthur Vane. I am a detective. Or I was. The distinction matters less now. The badge is in the drawer next to the coffee maker. It has lost its shine. It looks like a button from a dead man’s coat.

I am investigating the theft of the seeds.

It sounds absurd. I know how it sounds. But in this house, in this silence, the seeds are the only thing that makes sense. They are the evidence. They are the crime.

My brother, Julian, is in the other room. He is sitting in the armchair by the window. The light is gray. It is the kind of light that makes the world look like a photograph of itself.

Julian is holding a green sprout. It is tiny. It is alive. It is the only green thing in the house.

He looks at me. He does not smile. He never smiles anymore. Not since we started.

"Arthur," he says.

His voice is thin. It is the voice of a man who has been swallowing stones.

"I see it," I say.

"I know you do."

We have been here for three days. The doors are locked. The phones are off. The internet is dead. We are sealed in. This is the rule. The rule I set. The rule that is breaking me.

I am the investigator. I am the suspect. I am the jury. I am the executioner.

The seeds were my idea. I bought them. I planted them. I watched them grow. I told Julian they were a metaphor for our marriage. I told him they were a test of our will. I told him that if the seeds died, we were done. If they lived, we would continue.

It was a cruel game. I played it on him. I played it on myself.

Now the seeds are everywhere. They are in the walls. They are in the floorboards. They are in the air.

I pick up the torn packet. I hold it up to the light.

"You didn't eat them," I say.

Julian shrugs. It is a small movement. A tiny tremor.

"I didn't know they were there," he says.

"Liar."

The word hangs in the air. It is sharp. It cuts.

He looks down at the sprout in his hand. He turns it over. He looks at the root. It is white. It is fragile.

"I love you," he says.

The words are heavy. They crush me.

I want to hit him. I want to shake him. I want to scream. But I do not. I am the detective. I must remain objective. I must remain calm. I must find the truth.

The truth is that I am the monster.

I remember the night we started. The argument. The shouting. The breaking of the glass. I threw a vase. It hit the wall. It shattered. The sound was like a gunshot.

Julian stood in the middle of the room. He was bleeding from the forehead. A thin line of red.

I felt a surge of power. I felt clean. I felt right.

I went to the kitchen. I opened the cabinet. I saw the seeds. I didn't know what I was doing. I just grabbed the packet.

"Let's play a game," I said.

He laughed. It was a broken sound.

"Okay," he said.

That was the mistake. He agreed. He played along. He believed me.

Now he is trapped. I am trapped. We are both trapped in the garden I created.

I walk to the window. I look out. The street is empty. The cars are parked. The trees are bare.

I am watching my own face in the glass. It is distorted. The eyes are wide. The mouth is tight.

I am not a detective. I am a gardener. I am a jailer. I am a god.

I turn back to Julian.

He is still holding the sprout. He is feeding it. He is whispering to it.

"What are you saying to it?" I ask.

"I'm telling it to stay," he says.

"Stay where?"

"Here. With us."

I feel a chill. It starts in my bones. It spreads to my skin.

I go to the counter. I scrape the dust into a pile. I use my finger. I make a small mound.

I look at Julian.

"I'm going to burn it," I say.

His head snaps up. His eyes are wide. They are full of fear.

"No," he says.

"Yes."

"You can't."

"I can."

I pick up a lighter. I strike it. The flame is blue. It is steady.

Julian stands up. He moves toward me. He is fast. He is desperate.

"Arthur, stop."

He grabs my arm. His fingers are cold. They are tight.

He is pulling me. He is trying to stop me.

I am stronger. I have been eating. He has not.

I shake him off. I step back.

The flame flickers.

"I have to end it," I say.

"It's not over."

"It is."

He looks at the sprout. He looks at me. He looks at the seeds on the counter.

"You're the one who is lost," he says.

The words hit me. They hit me in the chest. They knock the wind out of me.

I look at the flame. It is dying.

I look at Julian. He is crying. The tears are silent. They fall onto the floor.

I drop the lighter. It clatters on the counter. It rolls to the edge. It falls. It hits the floor.

The flame is out.

I am standing in the silence. I am breathing hard. My heart is pounding.

I look at the seeds. They are still there. They are waiting.

I look at Julian. He is sitting down. He is holding the sprout to his chest. He is protecting it.

He is protecting it from me.

I am the threat. I am the danger. I am the drought.

I go to the bedroom. I close the door. I sit on the bed. I pull my knees up to my chest.

I am shivering.

I am afraid.

I am not afraid of Julian. I am afraid of myself. I am afraid of what I have done. I am afraid of what I am.

I am a detective. I am looking for the truth. The truth is in the mirror. The truth is in the seeds.

The seeds are growing. I can hear them. It is a faint sound. It is like the ticking of a clock. It is like the beating of a heart.

They are taking over.

I get up. I walk to the window. I look out.

The street is still empty. But the shadows are moving. They are long. They are thin. They are reaching toward the house.

I turn back to the room.

Julian is at the door. He has the key. He is unlocking it.

I stare at him.

"Let it go," I say.

He looks at me. His face is pale.

"I can't," he says.

"Let it go, Julian."

He shakes his head.

"It's all I have."

He steps into the room. He walks toward me.

He is holding the sprout. It is bigger now. It has leaves. It is green. It is bright.

He hands it to me.

I take it. It is warm. It is alive.

It is heavy.

I hold it in my hands. I feel the life in it. I feel the power.

I look at Julian.

"I'm sorry," I say.

He nods.

He walks to the door. He opens it.

The light floods in. It is bright. It is blinding.

I close my eyes.

I feel the sprout in my hands. I feel the roots.

I open my hands.

The sprout falls.

It hits the floor. It breaks.

The green juice splatters on the wood.

It is the color of blood.

It is the color of life.

It is the color of death.

Julian looks at the broken sprout. He looks at me.

He does not speak.

He walks out the door.

He does not look back.

The door closes.

I am alone.

I am holding the dust.

I am holding the ash.

I am holding the truth.

I am the detective. I have solved the case.

The culprit is me.

The victim is us.

The evidence is the seeds.

I look at the counter. The pile of dust is gone.

I look at the floor. The juice is drying.

It is turning brown.

It is turning black.

I am waiting.

I am waiting for the next seed.

I am waiting for the next sprout.

I am waiting for the next lie.

I am the golden greenhouse. I am the glass. I am the sun. I am the heat.

I am the trap.

I am the key.

I am the lock.

I am the silence.

I am the scream.

I am the end.

I am the beginning.

I am the detective.

I am the fool.

I am the man who loved too much.

I am the man who loved too little.

I am the man who is now.

I am the dust.

I am the seed.

I am the grow.

I am the die.

I am the life.

I am the death.

I am the truth.

I am the lie.

I am the silence.

I am the sound.

I am the light.

I am the dark.

I am the gold.

I am the green.

I am the house.

I am the world.

I am the end.