The dream was wet.

It tasted of rust.

And cold iron.

Wick sat in the chair.

The chair was wood.

Old wood.

Dark.

It smelled of oil.

And rot.

He did not look up.

He could not.

His eyes were fixed on the floor.

On the crack in the plaster.

A thin line.

Like a vein.

Pulsing.

Or maybe it was just the light.

Flickering.

The lamp was gas.

Yellow.

Sickly.

It buzzed.

A low hum.

Like a fly.

Trapped in glass.

Wick knew the sound.

He had heard it for years.

In the mines.

In the deep places.

Where the air is thick.

And the dust is fine.

It gets in your lungs.

In your throat.

In your blood.

It is black.

It is everywhere.

He coughed.

A small sound.

Dry.

Like leaves.

Cracking.

The doctor said it was consumption.

The Black Phlegm.

They called it that.

In the pits.

Not in the books.

Not in the clean clinics.

Where the men wore white coats.

And spoke of lungs.

As if they were separate things.

Boxes.

To be filled.

Or emptied.

Wick’s box was full.

Of dust.

Of guilt.

Of the boy.

He thought of the boy.

Always.

In the dark.

In the light.

Tommy.

Small.

Thin.

Like a sparrow.

With a broken wing.

They had worked together.

For three days.

Three days of hell.

The coal was hard.

The roof was low.

The air was dead.

And then.

The sound.

A crack.

Like a bone.

Snapping.

The roof gave way.

Not all at once.

Slowly.

A whisper.

Then a roar.

Dust.

Darkness.

Screams.

Wick had seen it.

He had seen the beam.

Bending.

Buckling.

He knew it would fall.

He knew where it would fall.

On Tommy.

He could move.

He could pull Tommy.

He could save him.

But he did not.

He stayed still.

He watched.

The beam came down.

It was fast.

A black blur.

And then silence.

Heavy.

Thick.

Wick crawled out.

Through the dust.

Through the dark.

He did not look back.

He walked.

For miles.

Until he found a town.

A place with no mines.

With no coal.

With no dirt.

He bought a house.

Small.

White.

Clean.

He bought a chair.

Wood.

Old.

He bought a lamp.

Gas.

Yellow.

He sat.

And he waited.

For the end.

For the debt.

To be paid.

Years passed.

Ten.

Twenty.

The house grew old.

The paint peeled.

The wood warped.

But Wick stayed.

In the chair.

In the dark.

He ate little.

He slept less.

He watched the door.

Waiting for the knock.

The judgment.

The reaper.

But no one came.

Only the wind.

Only the rain.

Only the sound.

Of the lamp.

Buzzing.

Like a fly.

One night.

The dream changed.

It was no longer wet.

It was dry.

It was cold.

It was the pit.

The dark.

The dust.

And the boy.

Tommy.

He was there.

In the dream.

Not dead.

Not a ghost.

Just a boy.

Small.

Thin.

Like a sparrow.

He looked at Wick.

His eyes were dark.

Deep.

Like the coal.

He did not speak.

He just looked.

And Wick felt it.

The weight.

Of the gaze.

Of the silence.

Of the knowing.

It was not anger.

It was not hate.

It was something else.

Something worse.

Indifference.

Tommy did not care.

Tommy had moved on.

Or perhaps he had never been there.

Perhaps Wick had made him up.

A phantom.

A figment.

Of his own guilt.

A mirror.

Reflecting his own face.

Distorted.

Broken.

Wick woke up.

Sweating.

Shaking.

The lamp was out.

Darkness.

Total.

He could not breathe.

The air was thick.

With dust.

With fear.

With the past.

He lit a match.

A flare.

A spark.

In the dark.

He saw the chair.

Empty.

He saw the floor.

The crack.

Gone.

Smooth.

Whole.

He looked at his hands.

They were clean.

No dust.

No blood.

Just skin.

Pale.

Cold.

He looked at the wall.

A shadow.

Moving.

Slithering.

Like a snake.

Like a vine.

It reached for him.

He pulled away.

He fell.

The chair toppled.

A crash.

A break.

Wood splintered.

Sharp.

Painful.

He lay on the floor.

Broken.

Like the beam.

Like the roof.

Like his life.

He tried to rise.

But he could not.

His legs were weak.

His lungs were tight.

The coughing started.

Again.

A rattle.

A wheeze.

A death rattle.

He spat.

Black.

Thick.

On the floor.

A stain.

Permanent.

Unwashed.

He looked at the stain.

It looked like a face.

Tommy’s face.

Smiling.

Mocking.

Wick laughed.

A short sound.

Sharp.

Hysterical.

Then he stopped.

The silence returned.

He closed his eyes.

He waited.

For the end.

It came.

Not with a knock.

Not with a reaper.

But with a light.

A soft light.

Pale.

Blue.

It filled the room.

It filled the air.

It filled his lungs.

He felt it.

A warmth.

A comfort.

A release.

The pain stopped.

The fear stopped.

The guilt stopped.

He felt light.

Weightless.

Free.

He opened his eyes.

The room was gone.

The chair was gone.

The lamp was gone.

He was in a field.

Green.

Grass.

Tall.

Swaying.

In the wind.

The sky was blue.

Clear.

Wide.

There was no dust.

There was no dirt.

There was no coal.

There was only light.

And air.

And freedom.

He stood up.

His legs were strong.

His lungs were clear.

He took a breath.

Deep.

Full.

Sweet.

He looked around.

No one was there.

No Tommy.

No doctor.

No judge.

Just him.

Alone.

Free.

He smiled.

A small smile.

Gentle.

Kind.

He began to walk.

Toward the horizon.

Toward the light.

Toward the end.

The end was not death.

The end was life.

True life.

Clean.

Pure.

Free.

He walked.

And walked.

And walked.

The grass was soft.

The air was cool.

The sun was warm.

He felt no pain.

He felt no guilt.

He felt no fear.

He felt only peace.

Only joy.

Only love.

For himself.

For the past.

For the present.

For the future.

He was free.

At last.

He was home.

The light faded.

The grass disappeared.

The air grew thick.

The dust returned.

The pain returned.

The fear returned.

Wick opened his eyes.

He was in the chair.

Broken.

Splintered.

He was on the floor.

The lamp was burning.

Yellow.

Sickly.

Buzzing.

Like a fly.

He looked at his hands.

They were dirty.

Black.

Covered in dust.

He looked at the floor.

The stain.

The face.

Tommy’s face.

Smiling.

Mocking.

Wick coughed.

A rattle.

A wheeze.

A death rattle.

He spat.

Black.

Thick.

On the floor.

He looked at the stain.

It was growing.

Spreading.

Like a shadow.

Like a lie.

He tried to rise.

But he could not.

His legs were weak.

His lungs were tight.

The coughing got worse.

He gasped.

For air.

But the air was thick.

With dust.

With guilt.

With the past.

He looked at the door.

The knock came.

Soft.

Gentle.

Kind.

He did not move.

He did not breathe.

He waited.

The door opened.

Light.

Blinding.

White.

Pure.

Clean.

A figure stood there.

Tall.

Thin.

Like a sparrow.

With a broken wing.

Tommy.

Alive.

Whole.

Free.

He looked at Wick.

His eyes were dark.

Deep.

Like the coal.

He did not speak.

He just looked.

And Wick felt it.

The weight.

Of the gaze.

Of the silence.

Of the knowing.

It was not anger.

It was not hate.

It was something else.

Something worse.

Indifference.

Tommy did not care.

Tommy had moved on.

Or perhaps he had never been there.

Perhaps Wick had made him up.

A phantom.

A figment.

Of his own guilt.

A mirror.

Reflecting his own face.

Distorted.

Broken.

Wick closed his eyes.

He accepted it.

The defeat.

The loss.

The truth.

He was not a savior.

He was not a hero.

He was a coward.

A killer.

A ghost.

He opened his eyes.

The room was empty.

Tommy was gone.

The door was closed.

The light was gone.

Only the lamp.

Buzzing.

Like a fly.

Wick lay still.

He breathed.

Slowly.

Shallowly.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

The pain faded.

The fear faded.

The guilt faded.

He felt light.

Weightless.

Free.

He smiled.

A small smile.

Gentle.

Kind.

He let go.

Of the past.

Of the boy.

Of the coal.

Of the dust.

Of the guilt.

He let go.

Of himself.

The breath stopped.

The heart stopped.

The eyes closed.

The lamp went out.

Darkness.

Total.

Silence.

Absolute.

Peace.

Eternal.

Final.