The clock on the wall ticks. It is loud. You hear it. You count the seconds. One. Two. Three. The room is small. The air is stale. You sit in the corner. Your back is against the brick. It is cold. You are here because they told you to be here. You are here because you are wrong. Or so they say.

Your hands are in your lap. They are still. You do not move. You have learned not to move. Movement draws attention. Attention draws questions. Questions draw trouble. You want no trouble. You want only silence. But the silence has weight. It presses on your ears. It pushes against your chest.

You remember the door. The heavy oak door. It was painted black. The paint was peeling. You remember the brass knob. It was tarnished. You remember the hand that held it. It was a large hand. It was rough. It was not your hand.

You came here to work. That was the deal. You came here for the money. You came here for the freedom. You thought the factory was a machine. It was a mouth. It opened. It swallowed. It chewed. It spat you out. Or it kept you. It was still deciding.

The light comes through the window. It is gray. It is flat. It does not warm the floor. It does not warm you. You look at the dust motes. They dance in the beam. They are alive. You are not. You are just waiting.

A knock. Three raps. Sharp. Precise.

You do not stand up. You do not breathe. You wait.

The door opens. Light floods in. It is too bright. You squint. A figure stands there. It is tall. It is thin. It wears a gray suit. The suit is clean. It is too clean. It smells of soap and iron.

It is Thomas.

You know Thomas. You worked with Thomas. He sat at the next bench. He smelled of oil. He talked about his daughter. He talked about the rain. He did not talk about the machine. He did not talk about the fire.

He steps inside. The door closes. The lock clicks. The sound is final.

"Sit down," he says.

Your voice is dry. "I am sitting."

He looks at you. His eyes are blue. They are cold. They are like ice. He does not smile. He does not frown. He is neutral. He is a mirror.

"Take off your hat," he says.

You have no hat. You shake your head.

"Look at me."

You look at him.

"You are not who you say you are," he says.

The words hit you. They are soft. They are hard. They are a slap. They are a kiss. You do not understand. You know what you are. You are a man. You are a worker. You are a father. You are a son. You are nothing else.

"Who else?" you ask.

He does not answer. He walks to the table. There is a file on the table. It is thick. It is black. He opens it. He takes out a paper. He holds it up.

It is a photograph.

You look at it. Your breath stops.

It is you.

It is not you.

It is a man with your face. He is younger. He is happier. He is holding a book. He is standing in front of a library. The library is in London. The library is in 1905. You were not in London. You were in the factory. You were in the dark.

"You were not in the factory," Thomas says.

"I was," you say. "I was there. I saw the fire. I saw the men die."

Thomas laughs. It is a short sound. It is ugly.

"You were in the library," he says. "You were a student. You were a dreamer. You were a ghost."

"No," you say. "I am real. I am here. I am breathing."

"You are a shadow," he says. "You are a mistake."

The room tilts. The floor shakes. The clock stops. The silence becomes loud. It becomes a roar.

"Who am I?" you ask.

Thomas puts the paper down. He looks at you. His face is soft now. The coldness is gone. There is pity in his eyes. There is love. It is a terrible love. It is a love that wants to erase you.

"You are the thing we made," he says. "We made you to work. We made you to be silent. We made you to be strong. We made you to be nothing."

"I am not nothing," you say.

"You are everything," he says. "And that is why you must go."

The door opens again. Two men enter. They are large. They are silent. They wear black. They carry ropes.

Thomas steps back. He looks at you. He nods. It is a small movement. It is a command.

"Take him," he says.

The men move. They are fast. They grab your arms. The pain is sharp. It is white. You do not struggle. You have learned not to struggle. Struggle is waste. You let them pull you. You let them drag you.

You pass Thomas. You look at him. He is still. He is calm. He is watching. He is waiting.

"Thomas," you say.

He does not look up.

"Thomas," you say.

He looks at you. His eyes are wet.

"Why?" you ask.

He opens his mouth. He closes it. He opens it again.

"Because you were too much," he says.

You are pulled out the door. The hallway is long. It is dark. The walls are stone. The air is cold. The men do not speak. They do not look at you. You are invisible. You are a shadow. You are a mistake.

You remember the fire. You remember the heat. You remember the smell of burning wood. You remember the screams. You remember the silence after.

You remember the library. You remember the books. You remember the dust. You remember the light.

Which one is real?

Does it matter?

You are walking. You are walking fast. The men are pushing you. You are moving toward the light. The light is at the end of the hallway. It is a door. It is open.

The sun is outside. It is bright. It is warm. It is real.

You step out. The air is fresh. It smells of rain. It smells of life.

The men let go. They step back. They disappear into the shadows.

You are alone.

You stand in the street. The street is empty. The cars are gone. The people are gone. The buildings are there. They are tall. They are gray. They are silent.

You look at your hands. They are your hands. They are rough. They are strong. They are yours.

You look at the sky. It is blue. It is vast. It is endless.

You are here. You are real. You are a man.

You are a mistake.

You are a dream.

You are a ghost.

You are alive.

You walk. You walk slowly. You walk with purpose. You do not know where you are going. You do not need to know. You just need to walk.

You pass a shop. There is a mirror in the window. You stop. You look in.

A man looks back.

He has your face.

He is not smiling.

He is not crying.

He is looking.

He is waiting.

He is you.

You turn away. You keep walking.

The sun sets. The sky turns orange. The sky turns red. The sky turns black.

The stars come out. They are bright. They are cold. They are far.

You are small. You are alone.

You are free.

You are defeated.

You are home.

You sit on a bench. The bench is wooden. It is cold. You lean back. You close your eyes.

You hear the clock. It is ticking. It is loud. You do not count the seconds. You do not care about the time. Time is a circle. You are in the center.

You think of Thomas. You think of the fire. You think of the library. You think of the machine.

They are all the same.

They are all different.

You are the bridge.

You are the wall.

You are the door.

You open your eyes. The street is empty. The world is quiet.

You take a breath. It is deep. It is full.

You stand up.

You walk.

You do not look back.

You do not look forward.

You look down.

You look at your feet.

They are moving.

They are walking.

They are alive.

You are alive.

The night is long. The road is long. You have time. You have nothing else.

You have the walk.

You have the breath.

You have the self.

You choose it.

You choose you.

The darkness takes you. The light follows you. You are the space between. You are the silence between the ticks. You are the pause. You are the breath.

You are the story.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

You are here.