The dream was wet. It smelled of iron and damp wool.

Thomas sat on the edge of his bed, breathing hard. The rain tapped against the windowpane. It was a steady, industrial rhythm. Tick. Tick. Tick.

He looked at his hands. They were shaking.

"Up," said a voice from the floor.

Thomas flinched. He did not know who had spoken. He did not know where the voice had come from. The room was dark. The only light came from the gas lamp on the bedside table. It flickered.

"Who is there?" Thomas asked.

"The moth," the voice said. "It is waiting."

Thomas knew what it meant. Everyone in the mill knew. The moth was not an insect. It was a thing of shadow and hunger. It lived in the walls. It lived in the gears. It ate the time that men did not earn.

Thomas swung his legs off the bed. His feet hit the cold floor.

"Where is it?" he asked.

"Downstairs," the voice said. "In the cellar. Under the boiler."

Thomas stood. He felt tall. He felt strong. This was the dream that never ended. In the dream, he was not a clerk. He was a hunter. He had a sword. The sword was made of bone.

He walked to the door. He opened it. The hallway was long. The walls were peeling.

"Is the sword ready?" Thomas asked the dark.

"It is always ready," the voice said. "You must hold it tight. Do not let go."

Thomas walked down the stairs. The steps creaked. Each step was a heartbeat.

He reached the cellar. The air was thick. It smelled of sulfur. He saw the shadow. It moved like smoke. It had no shape, but he knew its intent. It wanted to swallow him.

Thomas raised the bone sword. He swung.

The shadow screamed. It was a high, thin sound. It sounded like a child.

"Again," Thomas said. His voice was steady. "Again."

He swung again. The sword bit deep. The shadow recoiled. It hissed. It was afraid.

Thomas smiled. He felt the power. He felt the victory. He was the master of the house. He was the master of the night.

Then the alarm clock rang.

It was a harsh, electronic shriek.

Thomas opened his eyes. The room was gray. The rain had stopped. The sky was a flat, pale sheet.

He looked at his hands. They were not shaking. They were dry. They were the hands of a man who had slept well.

He sat up. The sheets were tangled around his legs. He pulled them away.

The dream was gone. The sword was gone. The shadow was gone.

There was only the silence.

Thomas walked to the window. He pulled back the curtain. The street below was empty. The cobblestones were wet. A black crow sat on a lamppost. It watched him.

Thomas stared at the bird. The bird stared back.

"Good morning," Thomas said.

The bird ruffled its feathers. It did not speak.

Thomas dressed. He put on his gray suit. He buttoned his shirt. He tied his tie. The movements were automatic. They were the movements of a machine.

He went downstairs. The kitchen was cold. The stove was out. There was no fire.

He made coffee. The water boiled. He poured it into a mug. The steam rose in a white spiral.

He drank. It was bitter. It was good.

He looked at the clock on the wall. It was eight o'clock. He had to be at the office by nine.

He picked up his umbrella. He opened the front door. The cold air hit his face. It stung.

He stepped out into the street.

The city was waking up. The smoke from the factories hung low over the rooftops. It was a gray blanket. It covered everything.

Thomas walked. His shoes clicked on the wet pavement. Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

He passed a bakery. The smell of bread wafted out. He passed a church. The bells were silent. He passed a shop with a broken window.

He did not see any of these things. He was looking at the ground. He was looking for the shadow.

He knew it was there. He could feel it. It was behind him. It was under his feet. It was in the air.

He walked faster.

He reached the office building. It was a tall, stone structure. It loomed over the street. It looked like a fortress.

Thomas went inside. The lobby was warm. The carpet was red. It was thick and soft.

He checked his watch. It was eight forty-five. He had time.

He walked to his desk. He sat down. He opened his drawer. He took out his pen.

The other clerks were already there. They were typing. The sound was like rain. Clack-clack-clack-clack.

Thomas began to type.

His fingers moved. They were fast. They were precise.

He typed a letter. It was a routine letter. It was about a shipment of cotton.

He typed and typed. The words flowed. They made no sense. They were just marks on the page.

He felt the shadow.

It was stronger now. It was in the walls. It was in the floor. It was in the desk.

Thomas stopped typing. He looked around. The other clerks were still working. They did not see it. They did not hear it.

Only Thomas could see it.

It was a moth. It was black. It was large. It was sitting on the corner of his desk.

It looked at him. Its eyes were red.

"Hello," the moth said.

Thomas did not move. His heart hammered in his chest.

"Where is the sword?" Thomas whispered.

The moth laughed. It was a dry, rasping sound.

"There is no sword," the moth said. "There is only the pen."

Thomas looked at the pen in his hand. It was a simple, black pen. It was not a sword. It was a tool.

"What do you want?" Thomas asked.

"I want your time," the moth said. "I want your days. I want your years. I want to eat you."

Thomas felt a chill. He gripped the pen tighter.

"I will not give it to you," Thomas said.

The moth smiled. Its mouth was a slit.

"You already have," the moth said. "You gave it to me when you stopped dreaming. You gave it to me when you started working. You are feeding me with every word you type."

Thomas looked at the paper. The words were spreading. They were turning into black ink. The ink was moving. It was crawling towards him.

He tried to pull his hand back. He could not. The pen was fused to his hand.

The other clerks were typing faster. The sound was louder. Clack-clack-clack-clack.

Thomas looked at his colleague, Mr. Henderson. Mr. Henderson was typing. His face was pale. His eyes were wide.

"Mr. Henderson," Thomas said. "Look at me."

Mr. Henderson did not look up. He did not hear him.

"Mr. Henderson!" Thomas shouted.

Mr. Henderson stopped. He looked up. His eyes were empty.

"Do you see it?" Thomas asked. "The moth?"

Mr. Henderson blinked. He looked at the desk. There was no moth. There was only a fly.

"It's a fly," Mr. Henderson said. "Don't be silly, Thomas. Get back to work."

Mr. Henderson turned back to his machine. He began to type.

Thomas looked at the moth. The moth was growing. It was covering his arm. It was climbing up his neck.

"I see it," Thomas said. "I see it clearly."

The moth reached his face. It bit his cheek. The pain was sharp. It was electric.

Thomas gritted his teeth. He did not cry out.

He picked up the pen. He did not type. He drew a line. It was a straight, black line. It cut across the paper.

The moth screamed. It flinched. It pulled back.

Thomas drew another line. It was a circle. It enclosed the moth.

The moth was trapped. It was inside the ink. It was shrinking.

Thomas felt a surge of power. He was not a victim. He was the creator. He was the artist.

He drew a star. He drew a moon. He drew a sun.

The office changed. The walls disappeared. The desks disappeared. The clerks disappeared.

There was only Thomas. And the ink. And the light.

He was standing in a field. It was green. It was vast. The sky was blue. It was endless.

He held the pen. It was a golden rod. It was warm.

He looked at the horizon. The shadow was gone. The moth was gone.

He was free.

He took a breath. The air was sweet. It smelled of grass.

He smiled.

Then the alarm clock rang.

It was a harsh, electronic shriek.

Thomas opened his eyes. The room was gray. The rain had started again.

He looked at his hands. They were dirty. They were covered in black ink.

He looked at the desk. The paper was soaked. The ink was spreading. It was dripping onto the floor.

He looked at the window. The city was dark. The smoke was thick.

He was in the office. He had not slept. He had been working for twelve hours.

His colleagues were gone. The building was empty.

Thomas stood up. His legs were stiff. His back ached.

He walked to the door. He opened it. The hallway was dark.

He walked down the stairs. The steps creaked.

He reached the street. The rain was pouring. It was cold.

He walked home. His shoes were wet. His clothes were dry.

He reached his apartment. He opened the door.

The room was empty. The furniture was gone. The walls were bare.

There was only a mirror.

It was a large, round mirror. It was hanging on the wall.

Thomas looked at his reflection.

He was not a man. He was a moth.

He had black wings. He had red eyes. He had a small, soft body.

He looked at his hands. They were wings. They were black and brittle.

He tried to speak. He could not. He had no mouth.

He tried to move. He could not. He was stuck in the mirror.

He was the shadow. He was the hunger. He was the thing that ate time.

He had been the moth all along.

The dream was not a victory. It was a prison.

The sword was not a weapon. It was a chain.

He was trapped. He was fading.

The rain tapped against the glass. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Thomas waited. He did not hope. He did not fear.

He simply was.

And then, he was gone.