You stand in the hallway. The floor is cold stone. It has been cold for a century. You are wearing a suit that fits too well. The fabric whispers against your skin. It smells of lavender and dust. You are an investigator. This is your job. You look for things that are missing. Or things that are there when they should not be.

The institution is the Hall of Records. It is a place of silence. The silence is heavy. It presses against your eardrums. You walk past rows of shelves. The shelves are high. They reach into the shadows. You do not look up. You know what is up there. You have seen it before.

"Is it done?" you ask.

Your voice sounds strange here. It is flat. It has no echo.

A man sits at a desk near the window. He is writing. He does not look up. He is old. His hair is white. He is wearing a grey robe. He is Elias. He is the Keeper.

"It is not done," he says. "It is never done."

You lean against the wall. The wall is damp. You pull a small notebook from your pocket. You write your name. You write the date. You write the location. You are careful. You are precise. This is how you work. You do not guess. You verify.

"I need to see the room," you say.

Elias stops writing. He looks at you. His eyes are dark. They are deep. He smiles. It is a sad smile.

"You have seen it," he says. "You always see it."

"No," you say. "I have not. I need to see the final draft."

Elias stands up. He is tall. He is thin. He moves like smoke. He walks toward the door at the end of the hall. You follow him. Your shoes click on the stone. Click. Click. Click.

The door is heavy wood. It is carved with symbols. You do not know what the symbols mean. You do not care. You open the door.

The room is small. It is square. There is a table in the center. On the table is a book. The book is open. The pages are blank.

You look at Elias. He is standing by the window. The light from outside is grey. It is the color of ash.

"Write," he says.

"I do not write," you say. "I investigate."

"Write," he says again.

You look at the book. The paper is white. It is bright. It hurts your eyes. You take a pen from the desk. The pen is black. It is smooth. You hold it in your hand. You feel its weight. It is light. It is heavy.

You begin to write.

You write your name. You write the truth. You write about the case you are working on. You write about the missing person. You write about the clues. You write about the lies. You write quickly. The words flow. They are easy. They are simple.

You write that the missing person is your sister.

You stop. You look at the page. The ink is wet. It is black. It is spreading. It is bleeding into the paper.

"That is not true," you say.

"Read it," Elias says.

You read the words. They are your words. They are your handwriting. They are perfect.

"Who is she?" you ask.

"You know who she is," Elias says.

You feel a pain in your chest. It is sharp. It is sudden. You breathe in. You breathe out. The air is thick. It is hard to breathe.

"My name is not on that page," you say. "I am not the brother."

"Look at the page," Elias says.

You look at the page. The words are changing. The letters are moving. They are rearranging themselves. They are forming a new sentence.

*You are the one who left.*

You look at Elias. He is watching you. He is not smiling now. His face is serious.

"Did I leave?" you ask.

"Yes," he says. "You left. You abandoned the record. You abandoned the truth. You abandoned her."

You look at the book. The page is filling up. The ink is dark. It is spreading across the white surface. It is covering the words. It is covering everything.

"No," you say. "I am the investigator. I find the truth. I do not lose it."

"You are the investigator," Elias says. "You found the truth. You could not bear it. So you erased it. You erased her. You erased yourself."

You look at the pen in your hand. It is still. It is waiting.

"I need to fix it," you say. "I need to write the correct ending."

"There is no correct ending," Elias says. "There is only the record."

You look at the book. The ink is almost gone. The page is white again. It is blank. It is empty.

You pick up the pen. You do not write. You look at the window. The light is fading. The grey is turning to black.

"I will remember," you say.

"Memory is a trap," Elias says. "Memory is a lie."

You look at the book. You close it. The sound is loud. It echoes in the room.

"I will take it," you say.

Elias does not stop you. He steps aside. He lets you pass.

You walk to the door. You open it. You step out into the hallway. The floor is still cold. The silence is still heavy.

You walk back to the desk. You sit down. You pick up the pen. You open the book.

The page is blank.

You begin to write.

You write your name. You write the date. You write the location.

You write that the case is closed.

You write that the person is found.

You write that the person is safe.

You write that you are the brother.

You write that you are the one who stayed.

The ink flows. It is black. It is wet. It is true.

You look at Elias. He is watching you. He is smiling. It is a sad smile.

"It is done," he says.

You look at the page. The words are there. They are clear. They are sharp.

You feel a weight in your chest. It is heavy. It is solid. It is real.

You look at the pen. You put it down.

"I am the investigator," you say.

"Yes," Elias says. "You are the investigator."

You stand up. You walk to the door. You open it.

The hallway is empty. The shelves are high. The shadows are deep.

You walk into the dark.

You do not look back.

You know what you have done.

You know what you have lost.

You know what you have gained.

You are alone.

You are free.

You are wrong.

You stop in the middle of the hallway. You turn around. The door is closed. The desk is empty. Elias is gone.

You look at the book in your hand.

It is not a book.

It is a mirror.

Your face is in the glass.

You are old.

You are white-haired.

You are wearing a grey robe.

You are Elias.

You have been Elias for a century.

You have been the Keeper.

You have been the one who writes.

You have been the one who erases.

You look at your hands. They are thin. They are dry. They are old.

You feel the stone floor under your feet. It is cold.

You feel the silence in your ears. It is loud.

You look at the shelves. They are full. They are empty. They are both.

You are the investigator.

You are the case.

You are the file.

You are the lie.

You are the truth.

You close the mirror.

The light in the room changes. The grey turns to gold. The gold turns to white.

The white is blinding.

The white is pure.

The white is nothing.

You stand in the light.

You do not breathe.

You do not think.

You do not feel.

You are gone.

You are here.

You are the record.

You are the blank page.

You are the start.

You are the end.

You are the silence.

You are the sound.

You are the word.

You are the pen.

You are the ink.

You are the paper.

You are the reader.

You are the story.

You are the lie.

You are the truth.

You are the memory.

You are the forgetting.

You are the forgetting.

You are the forgetting.

You are the forgetting.

You are the forgetting.

You are the forgetting.

You are the forgetting.

You are the forgetting.

You are the forgetting.

You are the forgetting.

You are the forgetting.

You are the forgetting.

You are the forgetting.

You are the forgetting.

You are the forgetting.

You are the forgetting.

You are the forgetting.

You are the forgetting.

You are the forgetting.

You are the forgetting.