The coffee machine screamed.

It was a high, thin wail. It cut through the hum of the fluorescent lights. It cut through the quiet desperation of the open-plan office.

Margaret stopped. Her hand hovered over the carafe. The liquid was black. It was thick. It smelled of burnt earth and old pennies.

She had been here for twenty years.

She was forty-five. Her hair was turning gray at the temples. The process was slow. It was a creeping tide.

The office was a box of glass and steel. It sat in Chicago. The wind howled against the windows. It was November. The leaves were gone from the trees. The branches were bare. They looked like skeletal fingers. They reached for the sky. They asked for nothing.

Margaret poured the coffee.

The cup was white. It was chipped on the rim. She had owned it for a decade. It was the only thing in her apartment that felt real. The rest was rented. The rest was borrowed. The walls were thin. The neighbors argued at night. They threw things at each other. They screamed.

Margaret drank.

The heat spread through her chest. It was a small warmth. It was a lie.

Her phone buzzed.

It was her mother.

Margaret stared at the screen. The name glowed. Margaret. It was her own name. It was her mother’s name. It was a loop. A circle.

She did not answer.

She could not answer.

If she answered, the spell would break.

The spell was the work. The work was the anchor. The work was the cage.

Her manager, David, walked past. He did not look at her. He looked at his watch. He looked at the ceiling. He looked at the future. He never looked at the present.

"Margaret," he said.

She flinched.

"The report," he said.

"It is ready," she said.

"Send it."

"Yes."

He left.

The office was quiet again.

The coffee was gone.

The cup was empty.

It was black inside. It was a dark hole.

Margaret stared at it.

She remembered her mother’s kitchen.

It was in Ohio. It was small. It was yellow. The walls were peeling. The floor was cold.

Her mother had stood at the stove. She had worn an apron. The apron was blue. It was stained with flour. It was stained with grease. It was stained with time.

Her mother had made soup.

The soup was clear. It was simple. It was just water and salt and time.

"Drink," her mother had said.

Margaret had been seven. She had been sick. The flu had taken her breath away. The fever had taken her mind.

She had drunk.

The taste was nothing. It was water. It was salt.

But it had saved her.

It had pulled her back.

It had pulled her out of the dark.

It had pulled her back into the light.

Margaret closed her eyes.

The office dissolved.

The fluorescent lights flickered.

The walls melted.

The floor disappeared.

She was in the kitchen.

The air smelled of onions. It smelled of steam. It smelled of her mother’s perfume. The perfume was lavender. It was old. It was fading.

Her mother was there.

She was older now. Much older.

Her skin was paper. It was translucent. You could see the blue veins beneath. You could see the bones beneath.

Her mother was stirring the pot.

The spoon was wooden. It was worn smooth. It was shaped by years of use.

"Margaret," her mother said.

Her voice was thin. It was a whisper. It was a ghost.

"I am here," Margaret said.

She was not in the kitchen.

She was in the office.

She was holding the cup.

The cup was hot. It was burning her hands.

She did not feel it.

"Drink," her mother said.

Margaret opened her mouth.

There was no liquid.

There was only air.

There was only silence.

The phone buzzed again.

It was David.

It was a message.

"Where is the report?"

Margaret typed.

"Sending now."

She sent it.

She waited.

The clock on the wall ticked.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Each tick was a heartbeat. Each tick was a step closer to the end.

The end was not death.

The end was becoming her mother.

The end was standing at the stove.

The end was making the soup.

The end was waiting for the daughter to drink.

Margaret looked at her hands.

They were not her hands.

They were spotted. They were thin. The knuckles were swollen.

They were her mother’s hands.

She looked at her face in the window.

The glass was dark. It was a mirror.

She saw her mother.

Her mother was smiling.

The smile was sad. The smile was tired. The smile was resigned.

Margaret knew the truth.

She had been here before.

She had always been here.

Every woman in the line had stood in this office. Every woman had poured this coffee. Every woman had stared into this cup.

The cycle was tight. The cycle was unbreakable.

You could not escape.

You could only become.

You could only wait.

You could only drink.

David walked back.

He held a file.

It was red. It was urgent.

"We have a problem," he said.

His voice was flat. It was bored.

"The server crashed," he said.

"Everything is lost," he said.

Margaret felt a chill.

It was not fear.

It was recognition.

The loss was the point.

The loss was the purification.

The loss was the clearing of the table for the next meal.

"Start over," David said.

"Yes," Margaret said.

She stood up.

Her legs were stiff.

Her back ached.

She walked to the server room.

The server room was cold. It was dark. It smelled of ozone and dust.

She sat down.

She opened the computer.

The screen was blue.

It was the color of her mother’s apron.

It was the color of the sky in Ohio.

It was the color of the void.

She began to type.

Her fingers moved.

They were not her fingers.

They were her mother’s fingers.

They were her grandmother’s fingers.

They were the fingers of every woman who had ever sat in a box of glass and steel and poured a cup of black liquid and waited for the end.

The words appeared on the screen.

They were not words.

They were symbols.

They were codes.

They were the code of the body.

The code of the blood.

The code of the time.

Margaret typed faster.

The clock ticked.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The sun set outside.

The sky turned purple.

The sky turned black.

The office lights flickered.

They died.

The emergency lights came on.

They were red.

They were dim.

They cast long shadows.

The shadows moved.

The shadows breathed.

Margaret sat in the red light.

She held the cup.

The cup was empty.

It was clean.

It was ready.

Her phone buzzed.

It was her mother.

This time, she answered.

"Hello," she said.

"Margaret," her mother said.

Her voice was strong. It was clear. It was young.

"Drink," her mother said.

Margaret lifted the cup.

She drank.

It was not coffee.

It was life.

It was memory.

It was love.

It was the primal, instinctual bond.

It was the chain that held them together.

It was the chain that held them in the dark.

She drank it all.

She swallowed.

The warmth spread.

It went to her bones.

It went to her soul.

She felt light.

She felt free.

She felt gone.

She stood up.

The office was gone.

The walls were gone.

The floor was gone.

She was standing in the kitchen.

It was yellow.

It was warm.

Her mother was there.

She was young.

She was beautiful.

She was holding a bowl.

The bowl was white.

It was chipped on the rim.

"Thank you," Margaret said.

"Go," her mother said.

"Go now."

Margaret turned.

The door was open.

The wind blew in.

The wind carried the scent of rain.

The wind carried the scent of earth.

The wind carried the scent of beginning.

Margaret stepped out.

She stepped into the night.

She stepped into the dark.

She stepped into the next life.

She did not look back.

She could not look back.

The door closed behind her.

The latch clicked.

The sound was final.

The sound was a period at the end of a sentence.

The sentence was long.

The sentence was endless.

The sentence was the same.

Always the same.

Always the beginning.

Always the end.

Always the cup.

Always the drink.

Always the mother.

Always the daughter.

Always the loop.

Margaret walked.

Her feet touched the ground.

The ground was soft.

The ground was wet.

The ground was alive.

She walked into the rain.

The rain washed her face.

The rain washed her eyes.

The rain washed her heart.

She was clean.

She was new.

She was old.

She was young.

She was everyone.

She was no one.

She was the soup.

She was the water.

She was the salt.

She was the time.

She was the love.

She was the pain.

She was the peace.

She was the truth.

She was the lie.

She was the story.

She was the end.

She was the start.

The coffee machine screamed.

It was a high, thin wail.

It cut through the hum of the fluorescent lights.

It cut through the quiet desperation of the open-plan office.

A new woman sat at the desk.

Her hand hovered over the carafe.

The liquid was black.

It was thick.

It smelled of burnt earth and old pennies.

The woman stopped.

She stared.

She knew.

She had always known.

She poured.

The cup was white.

It was chipped on the rim.

She drank.

The heat spread.

The cycle began.

The clock ticked.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.