The dream began with teeth.

Not his own. Not human. The jaws were vast, white, and endless. They opened. The dark inside was warm. It smelled of iron. It smelled of wet earth. He tried to scream. No sound came. Only the grinding. The grinding went on.

He woke.

The ceiling was white. A crack ran through it. Like a river on a map. He lay still. His heart hammered. A drum in a chest. He breathed. In. Out.

The room was small. The walls were blue. A desk. A chair. A window. The glass was dirty. Outside, the city hummed. A low, constant drone.

He stood up.

His legs were stiff. He walked to the window. He looked down. The street was empty. The cars were parked. They sat like dead beasts.

He touched his face.

His fingers stopped.

He touched his jaw.

It was wrong.

He raised his hand. The fingers were pale. They trembled. He touched the skin. It was smooth. Too smooth. He touched the corner of his mouth. The skin pulled. It did not stretch. It snapped back. Like rubber.

He touched his ear.

It was gone.

Not missing. Not cut off. Gone. As if it had never been there. The hair grew straight down. No lobe. No cartilage. Just a flat, pale slope.

He touched the other ear.

It was there.

He touched it again. It was soft. It was warm. It was his.

He looked at his hand. The fingers were thin. The nails were short. They were clean.

He looked at the mirror.

The glass was dark. He could not see his face. He saw only the room. The desk. The chair. The window. He saw his own body. The shirt. The trousers. The shoes.

He did not see his face.

He closed his eyes.

He opened them.

The mirror showed him.

He was young. He was small. The hair was dark. The eyes were wide. The mouth was a line. It was thin. It was tight.

He touched the jaw again.

The skin was cold.

He walked to the desk. He sat down. The chair was hard. The wood was cold. He put his hands on the desk. He looked at them.

The hands were his.

He knew them. He knew the shape. He knew the lines. He knew the calluses. They were on the palms. They were from the strings. He played the cello. He had played it for ten years. The calluses were proof.

He looked at the wall.

A poster hung there. It was faded. The colors were dull. It showed a building. A tall building. It had many windows. The windows were dark.

He knew the building.

It was the Bureau.

He stood up.

He walked to the door. He turned the knob. It was cold. It was metal. It did not rust. It did not scratch. It was perfect.

He opened the door.

The hallway was long. The carpet was red. It was thick. It swallowed his steps. No sound. Only the hum. The drone.

He walked.

His feet were bare. The floor was cold. It bit into his soles. He did not stop.

He walked to the end.

There was a room. The door was closed.

He knocked.

No answer.

He knocked again.

No answer.

He pushed the door.

It opened.

The room was dark.

He entered.

A chair sat in the center. It was empty. A table stood beside it. On the table, a glass of water. The water was still. It was clear. It reflected the dark ceiling.

He sat down.

The chair was comfortable. It was soft. It was warm.

He put his hands on his knees.

He waited.

The door opened.

A man entered.

He was tall. He was thin. He wore a suit. The suit was black. It was clean. It was pressed. The shirt was white. The tie was red.

He walked to the table. He sat down.

He did not look at the boy.

He looked at the water.

The boy looked at the man.

The man did not move.

The boy spoke.

He opened his mouth.

No sound came.

He tried again.

His throat was tight. His chest was tight. The air was thick. He could not push it out. He could not push the words out.

He looked at the man.

The man’s eyes were closed.

The boy looked at his own hands.

They were still.

He looked at the glass of water.

The water was still.

He reached for the glass.

His hand moved. It was slow. It was heavy. He lifted the glass. The water sloshed. It hit the side. It made a sound. A small sound. A soft sound.

He drank.

The water was cold. It was sweet. It was clean.

He put the glass down.

The man opened his eyes.

The eyes were black. They were deep. They were still.

The man spoke.

The voice was low. The voice was soft. The voice was clear.

"Did you hear the dream?"

The boy nodded.

The man smiled.

The smile was small. The smile was thin. The smile was cold.

"You lost the ear."

The boy nodded.

"It is gone."

The boy nodded.

"Is it gone?"

The boy looked at his head. He touched the smooth skin. He touched the flat slope.

"Yes," he said.

The voice was small. The voice was weak. The voice was his.

The man leaned forward.

The man looked at the boy.

The man’s eyes were sharp. The man’s eyes were bright. The man’s eyes were hungry.

"Why did you lose it?"

The boy looked at the man.

The boy did not know.

The boy had not chosen to lose it. It had just gone. It had faded. It had worn away. Like a stone in a river. Like a leaf in the wind.

The boy did not speak.

The man waited.

The silence grew.

The silence was thick. The silence was heavy. The silence was loud.

The boy looked at his hands.

The calluses were there.

The man spoke again.

"You are a musician."

The boy nodded.

"You play the cello."

The boy nodded.

"Can you play?"

The boy looked at the man.

The boy did not have a cello.

The boy did not have a room.

The boy did not have a life.

The boy was here.

The boy was in the chair.

The boy was in the room.

The boy was in the Bureau.

The man stood up.

The man walked to the door.

The man opened the door.

The hallway was bright. The light was white. The light was hard. The light was cold.

The man pointed to the door.

"Go."

The boy stood up.

The boy walked to the door.

The boy stepped into the hallway.

The man closed the door.

The click was loud.

The click was sharp.

The click was final.

The boy walked.

The carpet was red.

The boy walked.

The light was white.

The boy walked.

The hum was loud.

The boy walked.

He reached the end.

There was a door.

It was black.

It was tall.

It was wide.

The boy touched the door.

The door was cold.

The door was smooth.

The door was hard.

The boy pushed.

The door did not move.

The boy pushed harder.

The door did not move.

The boy looked at the door.

The door was blank.

There was no handle.

There was no knob.

There was no lock.

There was no way in.

The boy touched the wall.

The wall was cold.

The wall was hard.

The wall was thick.

The boy sat down.

He sat on the floor.

The carpet was soft.

The carpet was red.

The boy put his head in his hands.

He thought of the dream.

The teeth.

The grinding.

The dark.

He thought of the ear.

The smooth skin.

The flat slope.

He thought of the cello.

The strings.

The wood.

The sound.

He thought of the man.

The black eyes.

The white shirt.

The red tie.

He thought of the Bureau.

The windows.

The dark.

The hum.

He thought of himself.

He was small.

He was young.

He was here.

He was lost.

He was wrong.

The hum grew.

The hum was in his head.

The hum was in his bones.

The hum was in his blood.

He closed his eyes.

He saw the water.

The water was still.

The water was clear.

The water was cold.

He opened his eyes.

The door was there.

The door was black.

The door was wide.

He stood up.

He walked to the door.

He pushed.

The door moved.

The door opened.

The light was bright.

The light was white.

The light was hard.

He stepped through.

The room was empty.

The walls were white.

The floor was white.

The ceiling was white.

He was alone.

He was free.

He was out.

He looked at his hands.

The calluses were gone.

The palms were smooth.

The palms were pale.

The palms were new.

He touched his face.

The jaw was smooth.

The skin was cold.

He touched his ear.

It was there.

It was soft.

It was warm.

It was his.

He closed his eyes.

He opened them.

The room was empty.

The walls were white.

The floor was white.

The ceiling was white.

He was alone.

He was free.

He was out.

He walked.

He walked.

He walked.

The light was bright.

The light was white.

The light was hard.

He did not stop.

He did not look back.

He did not speak.

He only walked.

The hum was gone.

The silence was loud.

The silence was clear.

The silence was his.