The door is white. It is the only white thing in the world. You stand before it, and the paint is peeling, curling up like dead skin, revealing the gray rot beneath. You know what this place is. You have always known. It is the house you left. It is the house that left you. You are not dreaming, but the air tastes of static and old dust, and your feet do not make a sound on the floor. You are in the city, but the city is a skeleton. The buildings are stripped of their windows, hollowed out, breathing a cold wind that smells of iron. You are here because you have to be. You are here because there is nowhere else to go.

You remember the day you packed the boxes. You remember the weight of the cardboard in your arms. You remember the silence of your mother’s eyes. She did not cry. She did not speak. She just watched you, her hands resting on the table, still as stone. You thought she was angry. You thought she was judging you. You were wrong. She was not angry. She was empty. You had taken everything with you, even the air in the room. You had taken the future, and left her with the past.

You walk down the hallway. The floorboards creak. The walls are thin. You can hear the neighbors. They are arguing. It is a low, continuous hum, like a machine that has been running too long. You know their names. You know their secrets. You know that the man in 4B cheats on his wife. You know that the woman in 5C drinks too much gin. You are part of this. You are part of the decay.

You reach the end of the hall. The door is there. It is smaller than you remember. It is warped and swollen. You try to open it. It does not move. You push with your shoulder. You push with your weight. It does not move. You are not strong enough. You were never strong enough. You are only a ghost in a city that has forgotten you.

You think of your father. He is dead. He has been dead for ten years. You did not go to his funeral. You were too far away. You were too poor. You could not afford the train ticket. You sent a check. You sent a card. You said, I am sorry. I could not come. It was not enough. It was never enough. You were the son who left. You were the son who failed.

You look at the door again. You see your reflection in the wood. It is distorted. Your face is stretched, pulled sideways. Your eyes are wide. Your mouth is open, but you are not making a sound. You are screaming, but the sound is trapped inside your chest. You are the monster. You are the thing that eats the house. You are the thing that eats your mother.

You think of the money. The little bit of money you have. You count it in your head. It is not enough for rent. It is not enough for food. It is not enough to buy a ticket home. You are trapped. You are trapped in the city. You are trapped in the city and in your guilt. You cannot escape. You cannot fix it. You cannot go back.

You remember the last time you saw your mother. She was sitting in the kitchen. She was peeling an apple. The skin came off in one long, white strip. She handed it to you. You took it. You ate it. It tasted of acid and sweetness. She looked at you and said, Eat. You ate. You did not say thank you. You did not say goodbye. You just left. You left the apple core on the table. You left the door open. You let the cold air in.

You push the door again. It gives a little. A crack forms at the top. The paint splits. You hear a sound. It is a low, groaning sound. It is the sound of the house dying. You are killing it. You are killing her. You are killing yourself.

You stop. You step back. You look at your hands. They are shaking. They are dirty. They are the hands of a thief. You have stolen her life. You have stolen your own. You have taken it all and left nothing. You are the void. You are the hole in the wall.

You think of the city. The city is vast. It is indifferent. It does not care if you live or die. It does not care if you are hungry or full. It does not care if you are lost or found. It just is. It is a machine. You are a part of it. You are a gear that has worn down. You are a rusted bolt. You are useless.

You look at the door. The crack is wider now. You can see something behind it. It is dark. It is empty. It is the end. You know what is behind it. You know what you have done. You know that you cannot undo it. You know that you must accept it.

You close your eyes. You breathe. The air is cold. It fills your lungs. It burns. You feel the pain. You feel the guilt. You feel the love. It is all there. It is all inside you. It is consuming you. It is eating you from the inside out. You are gone. You are already gone.

You open your eyes. The door is gone. There is only the wall. It is bare. It is gray. It is solid. You are alone. You are in the city. You are in the street. The sun is rising. The light is pale. It is the light of a new day. But it is not a good day. It is not a day of hope. It is a day of acceptance.

You walk. You do not know where you are going. You do not care. You have nothing to lose. You have nothing to gain. You are free. You are free because you have lost everything. You are free because you have been defeated. You are free because you are empty.

You think of your mother. She is alive. She is in the house. She is alone. She is waiting. She is waiting for you to come back. She will never come back. You will never go back. You are separated. You are apart. The distance between you is infinite. It is the distance between the living and the dead. It is the distance between the past and the future.

You keep walking. The city wakes up. The people come out. They go to work. They go to school. They go to live. You go to nothing. You go to the end of the road. You go to the place where the light ends. You go to the place where the door is.

You find it. It is a small door in a brick wall. It is white. It is peeling. It is the same door. It is the door to the house. It is the door to your life. You stand before it. You do not open it. You do not push it. You just stand there. You watch it. You let it be. You let it break. You let it crumble. You let it fall.

You turn away. You walk into the city. You walk into the life. You walk into the pain. You walk into the truth. You are the exile. You are the ghost. You are the one who left. You are the one who stayed. You are both. You are nothing.

The sun rises higher. The light is brighter. It is not warm. It is cold. It is the light of clarity. It is the light of surrender. You have been defeated. You have been broken. You have been emptied. You are clean. You are pure. You are free.

You do not look back. You do not look at the door. You do not look at the city. You look forward. You look at the road. You look at the future. It is empty. It is white. It is the door. It is the end. It is the beginning. You walk into it. You walk into the light. You walk into the silence. You walk into the end.

The story is over. The door is closed. The house is empty. The mother is alone. The son is gone. The city is indifferent. The sun is high. The light is pale. The end is here. The end is now. The end is you.