The rain did not fall. It hung.

A grey curtain. Static in the air.

I stood by the wall. My boots were wet.

My brother, Thomas, was inside.

He wore the coat. The long, black coat. It swallowed him.

We were in the square. The stone was slick.

The men of the Guild watched.

They stood in a line. Silent.

Their faces were masks of wax.

I looked at my hands. They shook.

I had killed a man yesterday.

A thief. Or so they said.

The Guild had ordered it.

I had obeyed.

Now I was the thief.

Thomas stepped out.

He looked at me.

His eyes were hard.

"Did you do it, Elias?"

"I had to."

"Liar."

The word hit me. A stone.

I did not flinch.

I could not.

The air was thick.

It tasted of iron.

"Come with me," Thomas said.

"Where?"

"Home."

We walked.

The rain began.

Slowly.

One drop. Then another.

The square filled with mist.

The Guild men watched us go.

They did not follow.

They never did.

They only watched.

We passed the bakery.

The bread was stale.

We passed the well.

The water was black.

We reached the gate.

It was heavy. Iron.

Thomas pushed it open.

It creaked.

A sound like a scream.

Inside, the house was dark.

The candles were out.

We sat in the hall.

Silence.

"I am tired, Elias."

"I know."

"They want the key."

"What key?"

"The one to the vault."

"I don't have it."

"Then you must find it."

"How?"

"You know."

I did not know.

I never did.

Thomas looked at the floor.

His hands were clasped.

Tight.

White knuckles.

"I am sorry," he said.

"For what?"

"For leaving you."

"You left me years ago."

"Yes."

"I forgave you."

"Did you?"

"Yes."

He nodded.

Once.

The rain hit the roof.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A rhythm.

A heartbeat.

"Listen," Thomas said.

"What?"

"They are not men, Elias."

I frowned.

The fog was thick.

I could not see his face.

"What do you mean?"

"The Guild."

"They are just men."

"No."

He stood up.

His coat moved.

Like a wing.

"Look at them, Elias. When they walk. Do they blink?"

I thought of the line in the square.

The wax faces.

The stillness.

"Sometimes," I said.

"Never," Thomas said.

"I have watched for years. They do not blink. They do not breathe. They are puppets."

I laughed.

It was a dry sound.

"You are mad."

"Am I?"

He walked to the window.

He looked out.

The street was empty.

But the shadows moved.

"We are in a play, Elias."

"Whose play?"

"Ours."

"Who is writing it?"

"Them."

He pointed to the rain.

I felt a chill.

It went to my bones.

"I don't understand."

"You will."

He turned to me.

His face was pale.

The candlelight flickered.

A shadow danced on his cheek.

"Give me your sword, Elias."

"Why?"

"To cut the thread."

"I will not give you my sword."

"Then you die."

"I am not afraid."

"Good."

He reached for his hip.

He drew a knife.

Small. Silver.

He cut his palm.

Blood ran.

Red.

Bright.

It dropped on the floor.

Splat.

The sound was loud.

Too loud.

The candles went out.

Darkness.

Total.

I felt the air change.

It became cold.

Freezing.

I heard a sound.

A hum.

Low.

Deep.

It came from the walls.

From the floor.

From the ceiling.

"Thomas?"

I called out.

No answer.

I fumbled in the dark.

My hand found the wall.

It was cold.

Smooth.

Not stone.

Cloth.

I touched it.

It moved.

It breathed.

I screamed.

I struck the wall.

My fist hit it.

Pain.

Hot.

The wall gave way.

Not to brick.

To air.

I fell.

I fell into the street.

The rain was still.

But I was dry.

I was on the cobblestones.

The house was gone.

There was nothing there.

Only a hole.

A dark pit.

I looked up.

The sky was black.

No stars.

No moon.

Just the grey curtain.

I looked at my hands.

They were covered in blood.

Thomas's blood.

I looked at the hole.

I could see down.

Deep.

Far.

I saw the Guild men.

They were standing in a circle.

Around the hole.

They were not men.

They were shadows.

They had no faces.

They held strings.

Long, thin strings.

The strings went up.

Into the dark.

They went into me.

I looked at my body.

Strings.

Hundreds of them.

Attached to my joints.

My spine.

My head.

I tried to move.

I could not.

The strings pulled.

Tight.

I felt a voice.

It was in my head.

It was not Thomas.

It was the Guild.

It was the City.

"Elias," it said.

"I am here."

"Thomas is gone."

"Thomas was a mistake."

"He was my brother."

"He was a thread."

"Cut it, Elias."

"I cannot."

"You must."

The pain came.

Sharp.

Blinding.

I saw a vision.

A garden.

Far away.

Over a mountain.

A white wall.

A gate.

Thomas was there.

He was young.

He was smiling.

He held a flower.

Red.

Bright.

"Come to me, Elias," the voice said.

"Come to the end."

I looked at the strings.

They were tugging.

Hard.

I felt my heart beat.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

It was not my heart.

It was the drum of the City.

I closed my eyes.

I thought of Thomas.

I thought of the rain.

I thought of the lie.

I opened my eyes.

I saw the knife.

It was in my hand.

I did not remember picking it up.

I did not remember cutting the string.

I cut my own hand.

The blood flowed.

Down.

Into the rain.

The rain drank it.

The strings snapped.

One by one.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

I fell to my knees.

The pain was gone.

The air was clear.

The grey curtain lifted.

The sky was blue.

Bright.

Blinding.

The Guild men were gone.

The hole was gone.

The house was there.

Intact.

Stone.

Real.

I stood up.

My legs were weak.

I walked to the house.

I knocked.

No one answered.

I opened the door.

It was open.

The hall was empty.

The candles were lit.

Warm.

Gold.

I walked to the window.

I looked out.

The square was empty.

The rain had stopped.

The sun was shining.

It was beautiful.

It was cold.

I looked at my hand.

The cut was healed.

There was no scar.

There was no blood.

There was no Thomas.

There was no Guild.

There was no play.

There was only the silence.

I sat on the floor.

I waited.

For what?

I did not know.

The sun moved across the room.

A shadow passed over my face.

I did not flinch.

I was free.

I was alone.

I was nothing.

The wind blew.

It carried a scent.

Flowers.

Sweet.

Faint.

I closed my eyes.

I smelled the garden.

It was far.

It was close.

It was here.

I opened my eyes.

The room was dark.

The candles were out.

The rain was falling.

I was in the square.

The Guild men were watching.

Thomas was beside me.

He held the knife.

He smiled.

"Did you do it, Elias?"

"I am here," I said.

"Good."

He handed me the knife.

I took it.

It was heavy.

It was warm.

I looked at the man in front of me.

The thief.

The Guild leader.

He wore a mask.

Wax.

White.

I raised the knife.

My hand did not shake.

I did not think.

I did not feel.

I acted.

The knife went in.

Clean.

Fast.

The man fell.

He did not scream.

He did not bleed.

He crumbled.

Into dust.

The dust blew away.

In the wind.

The rain stopped.

The sky cleared.

Thomas looked at me.

His eyes were soft.

"Thank you, Elias."

"You are welcome."

We walked home.

The street was dry.

The air was sweet.

We passed the bakery.

The bread was fresh.

We passed the well.

The water was clear.

We reached the gate.

Thomas pushed it open.

It did not creak.

It was silent.

Inside, the house was warm.

The candles were lit.

We sat in the hall.

Silence.

"I am tired, Elias."

"I know."

"They are gone."

"Yes."

"Did we win?"

"I don't know."

"Does it matter?"

"No."

We looked at the fire.

The flames danced.

Red.

Orange.

Gold.

I looked at Thomas.

He looked at me.

We did not speak.

We did not need to.

The rain began again.

But it was gentle.

A whisper.

A song.

I closed my eyes.

I felt the warmth.

I felt the love.

I felt the end.

It was not a loss.

It was a gift.

The sacrifice.

The redemption.

The truth.

I was free.

I was here.

I was home.

The fire burned.

Low.

Steady.

Bright.

I watched it.

Until it went out.

Until I went out.

Until there was nothing.

But the silence.

And the rain.

And the memory.

Of the garden.

Far away.

Close by.

Here.