The window is open.

Wind.

It smells of wet ash and old blood.

You are alone.

The room is small.

Square.

Walls painted a pale, sickly yellow.

Peeling.

You stand by the glass.

You look out.

Nothing there.

Just the grey sky.

Just the empty street.

Your hands are shaking.

You do not stop them.

You let them shake.

It is the only truth left.

You are a man who looks for things.

You look for the missing.

The dead.

The broken.

You have looked for them for thirty years.

You have found them.

You have put them in boxes.

You have sealed the boxes.

You have moved on.

Or so you thought.

Tonight, the boxes are open.

The wind pushes against your chest.

You feel the weight of it.

It is heavy.

Heavier than air.

Heavier than stone.

You turn from the window.

You walk to the desk.

The wood is dark.

Walnut.

Scratched.

You run a finger along the grain.

It is smooth.

Cold.

There is a letter.

It is white.

Plain.

No stamp.

No return address.

Just your name.

Thomas Bradshaw.

Written in black ink.

The ink is wet.

It has not dried.

You do not open it.

Not yet.

You sit.

The chair creaks.

A low sound.

Like a bone snapping.

You breathe.

In.

Out.

The room feels smaller.

The walls are closing in.

You can hear the house settling.

Creak.

Groan.

Shift.

It is alive.

It knows you are here.

It knows what you have done.

You pick up the letter.

The paper is thin.

Translucent.

You can see the light through it.

You tear the seal.

You read.

One line.

It is enough.

It is too much.

*She is in the wall.*

You drop the paper.

It flutters to the floor.

You do not look down.

You look at the wall.

The wall opposite the window.

The wall where you painted last week.

The wall where you hung the mirror.

The wall where the shadows gather.

You walk toward it.

Your feet do not make a sound.

The carpet is thick.

Grey.

Old.

You stop.

You touch the plaster.

It is warm.

Not the warmth of the sun.

Not the warmth of a fire.

The warmth of skin.

The warmth of breath.

You press your ear to it.

You listen.

At first, there is silence.

Then, a sound.

Faint.

Rhythmic.

A heartbeat.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

It is slow.

Heavy.

It is not your heart.

You know that.

You know it with a certainty that chills your blood.

You pull back.

Your hand is pressed against the wall.

Your fingers are curled.

You are afraid.

But you are not running.

You are a detective.

You investigate.

You do not run.

You take a knife from your pocket.

It is small.

Sharp.

A pocket knife.

You have carried it for years.

You have used it for cutting strings.

For opening packages.

For cutting rope.

Tonight, you use it for something else.

You press the tip into the plaster.

You push.

The wall resists.

Then, it gives.

A cloud of dust rises.

White.

Fine.

It settles on your face.

You cough.

You wipe your eyes.

You keep cutting.

The plaster crumbles.

You see the lath.

Wood.

Old.

Dry.

You cut deeper.

You see the studs.

Wood.

New.

Wet.

You cut the wood.

The knife bites in.

Squeak.

Snap.

A piece falls away.

Behind it, there is a space.

A void.

Dark.

Cold.

You lean in.

You look into the darkness.

There is something there.

A shape.

Small.

Curled.

You do not see a face.

You do not see eyes.

You see a hand.

A small hand.

Pale.

Blue.

The fingers are long.

The nails are short.

The skin is smooth.

It is not decayed.

It is not dead.

It is waiting.

You reach in.

Your hand goes into the darkness.

It is cold.

Ice cold.

You feel the fingers.

They are cold.

They are still.

You pull the hand out.

The arm comes with it.

Then the shoulder.

Then the head.

You pull the body into the room.

It is light.

Surprisingly light.

You lay it on the floor.

You look at it.

It is a girl.

She is small.

Young.

Maybe ten.

Maybe twelve.

She has dark hair.

Long.

It covers her face.

You brush it aside.

You see her eyes.

They are open.

They are blue.

They are looking at you.

She is not breathing.

But she is not dead.

Her skin is warm.

Her heart is beating.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

You look at her.

She looks at you.

You know her.

You have seen her before.

In your dreams.

In your memories.

In the places you do not want to go.

Her name is Eleanor.

She is your daughter.

She is dead.

She has been dead for twenty years.

You buried her.

You watched them lower the box.

You felt the dirt fall.

You closed the lid.

You left.

You forgot.

Or so you told yourself.

But you did not forget.

You kept her.

You put her in the wall.

You sealed her in.

You painted over her.

You lived above her.

You ate above her.

You slept above her.

You ignored her.

You denied her.

You betrayed her.

You broke your promise.

You promised to keep her safe.

You kept her trapped.

Now, you have freed her.

Or have you?

You look at her face.

Her lips move.

She says nothing.

But you hear her.

*Let me go.*

You nod.

You do not know how.

You do not know what to do.

You are a detective.

You solve problems.

This is a problem.

You look at the knife.

You look at the door.

You look at the window.

The wind is still blowing.

The sky is still grey.

The street is still empty.

You pick up the knife.

You hold it in your hand.

It is sharp.

It is cold.

You look at Eleanor.

Her eyes are still open.

She is waiting.

You understand.

You cannot take her with you.

You cannot save her.

You cannot undo what you have done.

The only way out is through.

You lower the knife.

You do not strike.

You do not kill.

You close your eyes.

You breathe.

In.

Out.

You feel the warmth of the room.

You feel the cold of the floor.

You feel the weight of the years.

You feel the love.

The primal love.

The blood love.

It is inside you.

It is outside you.

It is everywhere.

You open your eyes.

You look at Eleanor.

She is smiling.

It is a small smile.

Faint.

Sad.

She is letting you go.

You are letting her go.

You place the knife on the desk.

You stand up.

You walk to the window.

You open it wider.

The wind rushes in.

It fills the room.

It lifts the dust.

It lifts the hair.

It lifts the weight.

You step out.

You go to the street.

The air is cold.

It bites your skin.

You walk.

You do not look back.

You walk down the street.

The houses are dark.

The windows are empty.

The street is long.

It goes on and on.

You walk.

Your feet are heavy.

Your head is light.

You are free.

But it is a bitter freedom.

It is a lonely freedom.

It is a freedom paid for in blood.

You walk.

The wind follows you.

It whispers.

It hums.

It sings.

You do not listen.

You do not need to listen.

You know what it says.

It says: *You are alone.*

You know.

You have always known.

You walk into the night.

The night is deep.

The night is dark.

The night is yours.

You walk.

You walk.

You walk.

And then, you stop.

You turn around.

The house is behind you.

The window is open.

The light is on.

You see a figure in the window.

Small.

Dark.

Watching.

You do not wave.

You do not call out.

You turn away.

You walk into the dark.

The dark swallows you.

You are gone.

You are free.

The blade is far away.

The wall is closed.

The secret is kept.

But you know.

You will always know.

The cost of freedom.

The price of silence.

The weight of love.

You carry it.

You carry it.

You carry it.

Until the end.

Until the very end.

You walk.

The wind dies.

The stars come out.

They are cold.

They are bright.

They are indifferent.

You are not indifferent.

You feel the pain.

You feel the loss.

You feel the love.

It is a sharp pain.

It is a deep pain.

It is a real pain.

You do not hide it.

You do not deny it.

You let it burn.

You let it burn.

You let it burn.

And then, it fades.

It fades into the dark.

It fades into the night.

It fades into the silence.

You are still walking.

You are still alone.

But you are free.

The wind picks up again.

It pushes you forward.

You do not resist.

You let it push you.

You let it take you.

You let it go.

You let it go.

You let it go.