You wake up in the chair.

The leather is cracked. It smells of old dust and cold coffee. Your head is heavy. You do not remember falling asleep. You only remember the silence. The building is quiet. It has always been quiet here. The walls are thick. They hold the sound in. They keep the world out.

You look at your hands. They are steady. They are clean. This is good. You are an officer. You keep things clean. You keep things in order.

The door opens.

It is Elias.

He looks thin. His tie is loose. He is holding a file. It is thick. It is white. It stands out against the dark hallway.

"Morning," he says.

His voice is low. He does not look at you. He looks at the floor.

"Morning," you say.

He drops the file on your desk. It makes a heavy thud.

"You need to see this," he says.

You do not move. You sit in the chair. You watch him. He paces. He walks to the window. The glass is dirty. You can barely see the street. There are cars. There are people. They are small. They are far away.

"Who is it?" you ask.

Elias turns around. His eyes are red. He blinks.

"It’s a violation," he says. "Section four. Clause two."

You know the rules. You wrote some of them. You made them tight. You made them hard. They are like iron bars. They hold the bad things in.

"Read it," you say.

Elias sits down. He is afraid. You can see it. It shakes in his hands. He opens the file. He reads. You watch his face. It changes. It goes from fear to confusion. Then it goes to something else. Something cold.

"It’s not right," he says.

"You read the text," you say. "It is there."

"The text is wrong," he says. "The context is wrong."

"Context is not law," you say. "Law is text."

You stand up. You walk to him. You are taller than him. You have always been taller. You are the wall. He is the gap.

"Give me the file," you say.

He does not move. He looks up at you. His face is pale.

"You can’t do this," he says. "You know who they are."

"I know who I am," you say.

You take the file. You pull it from his grip. He lets it go. His hands are empty now. They look useless.

You sit back down. You open the file. You read.

The words are simple. They are dry. They describe a man. A woman. A house. A debt. The debt is large. The house is small. The man is sick. The woman is angry.

You close the file.

"Evict," you say.

Elias stands up. He is shaking.

"Evict?" he repeats. "In this weather?"

"The law does not check the weather," you say.

"The law is a tool," he says. "It is not a god."

You look at him. You do not blink.

"Sit down, Elias."

He does not sit. He is standing in the middle of the room. He is blocking the light.

"I can’t sign it," he says.

"Then leave," you say.

"Leave?"

"You are no longer needed here."

The words hang in the air. They are sharp. They cut.

Elias looks at you. He does not cry. He does not shout. He just looks. He sees you. He sees the uniform. He sees the badge. He sees the chair.

"I thought we were friends," he says.

The words hit you. They hit your chest. They do not break you. But they sting.

"We are colleagues," you say.

"Friends," he says. "We drank together. We talked. We were friends."

"Friends do not break the rules," you say.

"Rules are broken every day," he says. "By people like you."

"Rules are the only thing holding us together," you say. "Without them, we are animals."

"Animals have mercy," he says.

You stand up again. You walk to the door. You open it.

"Get out," you say.

He walks past you. He does not look back. His footsteps are slow. They echo in the hall. They fade.

You close the door.

You are alone.

The room is cold. The clock on the wall ticks. Tick. Tick. Tick.

You pick up the pen. You sign the paper.

The ink is black. It is wet. It spreads.

You put the pen down.

You go to the window. You look out. The city is gray. The sky is gray. The buildings are gray.

You see a car stop at the curb. A man gets out. He is holding a box. He is walking to the building. He is carrying the box carefully.

You watch him. You do not know who he is. You do not know if he is the man from the file. You do not know if he is anyone at all.

You turn away from the window.

You look at your desk. It is empty. The file is gone. Elias took it. Or you threw it away. You do not remember.

Your hands are shaking. You put them under the desk. You hide them.

You sit down.

The chair is hard. It is cold. It wears against your bones.

You wait.

The phone rings.

You pick it up.

"Office," you say.

It is the boss.

"Did you handle the Miller case?" he asks.

"Yes," you say.

"Good," he says. "He was a nuisance. Keep the place clean."

"Yes, sir," you say.

"You are doing well," he says. "You are a good soldier."

The line goes dead.

You put the phone down.

You look at the wall. There is a painting. It is old. It shows a house. The house is white. The roof is red. The garden is green.

The paint is peeling.

The red roof is fading. It is turning brown. It is turning gray.

You look at it for a long time.

The light in the room changes. The sun is setting. The shadows grow long. They stretch across the floor. They reach your feet.

You stand up.

You walk to the door.

You open it.

The hallway is empty. The light is dim.

You walk out.

You go down the stairs. The concrete is cold under your shoes.

You go out the front door.

The air is cold. It bites your face. It bites your lungs.

You walk to the street.

The car is still there. The man is still holding the box.

He is talking to a woman. She is standing on the sidewalk. She is holding a child.

The man is crying. The woman is shouting. The child is quiet.

You stop.

You watch them.

The man looks up. He sees you. He sees your uniform.

He stops crying. He wipes his face. He looks at you.

He waits.

You look at him.

You do not have a warrant. You do not have a paper. You do not have a reason.

You are just a man. He is just a man.

You raise your hand.

You lower it.

You turn around.

You walk away.

The sound of their voices follows you. It fades. It mixes with the traffic. It mixes with the wind.

You walk faster.

Your legs are heavy. Your heart is heavy.

You do not go home. You do not go to the station.

You walk.

You walk until the streets are empty.

You walk until the lights go out.

You sit on a bench.

The bench is metal. It is cold.

You look at the city.

It is vast. It is indifferent. It does not care about you. It does not care about the man with the box. It does not care about Elias.

It just exists.

You feel a tear on your cheek.

You do not wipe it away.

You let it fall.

It hits your hand. It is warm.

You close your eyes.

You think of the house in the painting. The white walls. The red roof.

You think of the crack in the leather chair.

You think of the silence.

It is not peace.

It is absence.

It is the space where something was broken.

You breathe in.

You breathe out.

The night is deep.

You are there.

You are alone.

You are clean.