The rain hits the tin roof like gravel.

You are bleeding.

The blood is warm. It mixes with the cold. You grip the hammer. Your knuckles are white. The wood splinters. It screams. You do not care.

This is the job. This is the wage.

The city breathes outside. It is a beast of iron and soot. The fog rolls in thick. It tastes of copper. Of old pennies. Of death. You are in the attic. It is high up. The air is thin.

Below, the street is a river of umbrellas. Black. Dark grey. They move like crows. You cannot see their faces. Only the tops of their hats. The tips of their boots.

You are Thomas. You are a builder. You are a liar.

You think you are a builder. You believe this. The belief is a stone in your chest. Heavy. Cold. You build to survive. You build to pay. The debt is a snake. It wraps around your neck. It tightens.

The house is old. It is rotting. The beams groan. They whisper. They say *leave*. You do not leave. You nail. You hammer. You break the silence.

There is a box in the corner. It is small. It is wood. It is dark. You ignore it. You must work. The clock ticks. It is loud. It is a metronome for your failure.

Your hands shake. The hammer slips. It strikes your thumb. Pain. Sharp. Bright. You do not stop. You cannot stop. The money is not in your pocket. It is in the future. The future is a hole. You are falling into it.

You look at the wall. There is a crack. It is long. It is ugly. It looks like a vein. You take the chisel. You take the mallet. You strike.

The wall gives.

Dust falls. It is yellow. It is sweet. It smells like vanilla. Like old paper. Like skin.

Behind the wall is a space. It is a cavity. It is a mouth. You shine your lantern into it. The light is weak. It flickers.

You see the box.

It is not the box from the corner. It is a different box. It is hidden. It is secret.

You stop. Your heart beats. Thump. Thump. Thump.

You know what this is. You have seen this before. In other houses. In other jobs. You are a scavenger. You are a thief. You take what you can. You sell what you take. It is how you eat. It is how you live.

This is your talent. Your skill. You are good at this. You are good at finding the hidden things. You are good at taking them.

You think you are a builder. You are a thief.

The lie is heavy. It presses on your chest. You cough. The dust makes you choke. You wipe your mouth. Your hand is red.

You look at the box. It is brass. It is engraved. There are stars. There are moons. It is beautiful. It is worthless. Or it is everything.

You do not know.

You take it.

You put it in your coat. It is small. It fits. It is warm. It feels like a secret.

You leave the wall open. The dark is there. It watches you.

You go down. The stairs creak. They complain. They hate you.

The street is wet. The lamps are on. They glow orange. They glow sick. You walk fast. Your boots slap. The sound is wet. Slap. Slap. Slap.

You go to the shop.

The shop is called *The Gilded Cage*. It is small. It is dark. It smells of dust and greed.

The man is behind the counter. He is old. His face is a map of lines. His eyes are small. They are black. They are deep.

This is Mr. Halloway.

He is your teacher. He taught you the trade. He taught you how to build. He taught you how to steal.

He looks at you. He does not smile. He never smiles.

"Hello, Thomas," he says.

His voice is low. It is rough. It is like sand on glass.

"Hello, sir," you say.

You are nervous. Your hands are in your pockets. You hold the box. You grip it tight.

"What have you?" he asks.

He does not ask if you are okay. He does not ask about the rain. He does not ask about your thumb. He only asks about the goods.

You pull out the box.

You put it on the counter.

The brass gleams. The light catches it. The stars shine.

Mr. Halloway looks at it.

He does not touch it.

He looks at you.

His face changes.

It is not surprise. It is fear.

It is not anger. It is sadness.

He stands up. He moves slowly. He walks around the counter. He stops in front of you.

He looks at the box. Then he looks at you.

"Where did you find this?" he asks.

His voice is quiet. It is soft. It is dangerous.

"I found it," you say.

"In the wall?"

"Yes."

"In the attic?"

"Yes."

"Which house?"

You do not know. You do not remember. You were in a hurry. You were in pain. You were in a rush.

"I don't know," you say.

Mr. Halloway shakes his head.

"It is the Whitmore house," he says.

Your blood goes cold.

The Whitmore house.

It is on the other side of the city. It is a big house. It is a rich house. It is a dead house.

The Whitmore family died. Ten years ago. A fire. A disease. A curse. No one knows.

The house is empty. It is sealed. It is forbidden.

You did not know.

You did not know it was the Whitmore house.

You thought it was a ruin. You thought it was abandoned. You thought it was fair game.

You are a thief. You take from the dead. It is your code. It is your rule.

But the Whitmore house is different.

Mr. Halloway speaks.

"That box," he says. "It is not gold. It is not silver."

"Then what is it?" you ask.

"It is a heart," he says.

You laugh. It is a short laugh. It is a dry laugh.

"A heart?" you say.

"Metaphorically," he says.

"No," he says. "Literally."

He leans in. He is close. You can smell his breath. It is stale. It is old.

"The Whitmore family," he says. "They were builders. Like you. Like me."

"We built this city. We built the foundations. We built the banks. We built the bridges."

"But we made a mistake."

"We took too much. We took from the earth. We took from the people. We took from the poor."

"And the city took it back."

"The house is a trap. The walls are hungry. The floors are teeth."

"If you take anything from that house, the house takes you."

You stare at him.

You do not believe him.

You are a builder. You are a man of wood and nail. You are a man of fact.

You look at the box.

It is brass. It is metal. It is inert.

It cannot hurt you.

"I will sell it," you say.

Mr. Halloway closes his eyes.

"You will not sell it," he says. "You will give it back."

"I will not," you say.

You are angry. The debt is heavy. The rain is cold. You are tired. You are hungry.

"I will sell it," you say.

Mr. Halloway opens his eyes.

He looks at you.

He sees your face. He sees your lie. He sees your greed.

He sighs.

"Go," he says.

You pick up the box.

You leave.

The door bangs. The sound echoes.

You are on the street. The rain is harder. It pours. It hammers.

You walk. You walk fast. Your boots are wet. Your soul is dry.

You go to the broker.

The broker is a woman. Her name is Mrs. Gable. She is thin. She is sharp. Her eyes are green. They are cold.

She looks at the box.

She opens it.

There is nothing inside.

It is empty.

She looks at you.

"Empty?" she asks.

"Yes," you say.

"It is worth nothing," she says.

"It is brass," you say. "It is engraved. It is rare."

"It is empty," she says. "I will give you five pounds."

Five pounds.

It is not enough. It is not enough for the debt. It is not enough for the food. It is not enough for the life.

You take the five pounds.

You take the coin. It is cold. It is heavy.

You leave.

You go home.

Your home is a room. It is small. It is dark. It is cold.

You put the coin on the table.

You sit.

You wait.

The night comes.

The shadows grow. They stretch. They reach for you.

You hear a knock.

It is soft. It is gentle.

You open the door.

It is Mr. Halloway.

He is wet. He is shivering. He is old.

He looks at you.

"You sold it," he says.

"Yes," you say.

"To Gable?"

"Yes."

"Did you open it?"

"No."

He steps in. He closes the door.

He looks at the coin.

He looks at you.

"He is gone," he says.

"Who?"

"Gable," he says. "She is dead."

You freeze.

"Dead?"

"Yes. A stroke. An hour ago. In her sleep."

You look at the coin.

It is just a coin.

"It was not a stroke," he says. "It was the house."

"The house?"

"The box was the key. The key to the Whitmore house. To the secret. To the power."

"When you opened it, you broke the seal."

"The house woke up."

"It took her."

You do not understand.

You are a builder. You are a man of wood and nail.

But the air is thick. It is heavy. It is alive.

You look at the walls of your room.

They are moving.

They are breathing.

The wood is creaking. The nails are rusting. The floor is sinking.

You are in the house.

You have always been in the house.

The house is everywhere.

The house is you.

Mr. Halloway puts his hand on your shoulder.

His hand is warm. It is real.

"I am sorry," he says.

"Why?" you ask.

"Because I did not stop you."

He looks at the door.

The door is closing.

It is closing by itself.

The wood is splitting.

The darkness is coming.

You run.

You run to the window.

You jump.

You fall.

You do not hit the ground.

You fall into the dark.

You fall into the wall.

You are inside.

You are in the attic.

The rain is on the roof.

You are bleeding.

The blood is warm.

It mixes with the cold.

You grip the hammer.

Your knuckles are white.

The wood splinters.

It screams.

You do not care.

This is the job.

This is the wage.

The box is in the corner.

It is small.

It is wood.

It is dark.

You ignore it.

You must work.

The clock ticks.

It is loud.

It is a metronome for your failure.

You are Thomas.

You are a builder.

You are a liar.

You think you are a builder.

You believe this.

The belief is a stone in your chest.

Heavy.

Cold.

You build to survive.

You build to pay.

The debt is a snake.

It wraps around your neck.

It tightens.

The house is old.

It is rotting.

The beams groan.

They whisper.

They say *leave*.

You do not leave.

You nail.

You hammer.

You break the silence.

The rain hits the tin roof like gravel.