The rain hit the tin roof like gravel. It was a steady, rhythmic drumming that filled the silence of the warehouse. I sat on a crate, my boots muddy, my coat soaked through. The air smelled of wet rust and old grain. Across from me, the table was bare except for a single plate. On the plate sat a loaf of bread. It was dark, dense, and still warm. Steam curled off it in thin, gray ribbons. I did not touch it.

"You’re still here," he said. His voice was low. It scraped against the wet noise outside.

"I’m always here, Thomas."

He looked at me. His eyes were red-rimmed. There was a cut on his forehead, a thin line of dried blood. He looked tired. Not the tiredness of sleep, but the tiredness of bones.

"Did you think I’d run?" he asked.

"No."

"You could have."

"I could have. I didn’t."

He laughed. It was a dry, broken sound. He reached for the bread. His hand shook. He tore a piece. He held it in the air.

"Eat," he said.

"I’m not hungry."

"You have to eat. You’re wasting away."

"I’m fine."

He threw the piece of bread at me. It hit my chest and fell to the floor. I picked it up. I wiped the dust off. I put it in my mouth. It was stale. It tasted of ash.

"We need to talk about the report," he said. He leaned forward. The shadows in the warehouse deepened.

"The report is done."

"It’s wrong."

"It’s accurate."

"It’s a lie."

"Everything is a lie if you look at it too close."

He slammed his hand on the table. The bread jumped. The sound echoed in the empty space.

"Who else knows?" he asked.

"No one."

"Lie to me again and I’ll kill you."

He didn’t mean it. Or maybe he did. It didn’t matter. We had done this dance before. In the mines. In the mills. In the cold fields of the north. We had survived by knowing the rules. The rules were simple. Don’t trust. Don’t feel. Don’t stop.

But the rules were changing. Or maybe they were just breaking.

"I found the ledger," he said.

I went still. The rain continued. *Tap tap tap.*

"The one from 1924," he said.

I didn’t answer.

"You kept it. I knew you kept it. I saw you burn the pages. I saw the smoke."

"I burned what needed to be burned."

"You burned the truth."

"I burned the danger."

He stood up. He was taller than me. He had always been taller. He moved with a slow, deliberate grace that I envied. I was all sharp angles and jerky movements. He was water. I was stone.

"Give it to me," he said.

"There is no ledger."

"It’s in the wall. I heard you. I heard you knock. *Knock knock knock.* A hollow sound. Like a head."

I looked at the wall. The brick was old. The mortar was crumbling. There was a draft there. A cold breath of air that smelled of earth and rot.

"Thomas," I said. "Sit down."

"Give it to me."

"I told you. It’s gone."

"You’re protecting him."

"I’m protecting us."

"Who? Him? Who is 'him'?"

I looked at him. I wanted to tell him. I wanted to scream it. I wanted to say, *It was me. It was always me. I’m the one who signed the orders. I’m the one who turned the valve. I’m the one who let them die in the dark.*

But I couldn’t.

Because if I told him, he would leave. And if he left, I would be alone. And I could not be alone. Not anymore.

"Sit down," I said again. My voice was steady. It was a lie, but it was a good one.

He sat. He picked up the bread. He tore another piece. He ate it. He chewed slowly.

"Why do you keep the food?" he asked.

"What?"

"The bread. The meat. The wine. You keep it in the cellar. You keep it for years. Why?"

"It’s practical."

"It’s a shrine."

I looked at the plate. The bread was half-eaten. The crumbs were scattered. It looked like a small, sad altar.

"I don’t know what you mean."

"You mean that you think if you keep it, if you preserve it, then the time will stand still. You think if you keep the food, then the hunger will go away."

He was right. He was always right. That was the problem. He saw through me. He saw the rot under the skin.

"I’m hungry," he said. "I’m always hungry."

"So am I."

"Then why do you eat? Why do you keep eating if you’re not hungry?"

"I eat to live."

"You eat to punish."

I looked at my hands. They were rough. They were stained with ink and oil. They were the hands of a worker. They were the hands of a killer.

"I don’t know," I said.

He leaned in. His face was inches from mine. I could see the pores in his skin. I could see the sweat beading on his lip.

"Tell me the truth," he whispered. "Just once. Tell me the truth."

I looked at the bread. It was the last piece. It was dark and dense. It looked like a stone.

"The ledger," I said. "It’s not in the wall."

His eyes widened.

"It’s in the fire."

He stared at me. The rain stopped. The silence was sudden and violent.

"You burned it?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I was afraid."

"Of what?"

"Of you."

He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. He just looked at me. And in that look, I saw everything. I saw the years we had spent together. I saw the fights. I saw the silences. I saw the moments when we had been brothers, and the moments when we had been enemies. I saw the love. It was there. It was huge. It was heavy. It was crushing us both.

"You’re a coward," he said.

"Yes."

"You’re a monster."

"Yes."

"Are you happy?"

"No."

"Are you sorry?"

"Yes."

He stood up. He walked to the door. He opened it. The night rushed in. The air was cold. It bit my face.

"Stay," he said. "Stay and eat the bread. Stay and be safe. Stay and be nothing."

He stepped out. The door closed. The sound was soft. A final click.

I sat in the dark. The rain started again. *Tap tap tap.*

I looked at the bread. It was untouched now. It sat on the plate, waiting. It was a promise. It was a threat. It was a mirror.

I picked it up. I broke it in half. I ate one half. I threw the other half into the dark.

I was alone.

The silence was loud. It filled my ears. It filled my chest. It filled my soul.

I waited for the hunger. It didn’t come.

I waited for the pain. It didn’t come.

I waited for the end. It didn’t come.

I just sat there. In the dark. In the rain. In the life I had built. In the life I had destroyed.

I ate the last of the bread. It tasted of nothing.

I closed my eyes.

I was still here.

The warehouse stood. The rain fell. The ghost of us remained.

And I did not move.

I did not move.

I did not move.