The bell rang. It did not ring like a bell. It rang like a bone breaking.

I heard it in the floorboards. I felt it in my teeth.

Silence.

Then the doors opened.

I looked up.

Thomas was there.

He stood by the window. The light was grey. The dust motes danced in the beams. He did not move. He watched me.

I stood up. My chair scraped. The sound was loud. It was a harsh sound. It cut the air.

Thomas walked forward. His steps were slow. Heavy. The wood groaned under him.

"Sit down," he said.

His voice was low. It was not angry. It was not kind. It was flat. Like a stone.

I did not sit. I could not. My legs were stiff. My mind was blank.

"Sit down, boy," he said again.

I sat.

The chair creaked.

He stopped in front of me. He was tall. He wore the grey robes. They were clean. They were pressed. They smelled of lavender and ash.

"Look at me," he said.

I looked.

His eyes were blue. They were deep. They were dark. Like wells.

I saw myself in them.

I saw my own face. But it was not my face. It was a mask. It was a lie.

"You are not here," he said.

"I am here," I said. My voice was small. It was thin. It trembled.

"No," he said. "You are a memory. You are a ghost in the machine. You are a stain on the glass."

I blinked.

The room flickered. The walls pulsed. The light changed. It turned red. Then black. Then white.

It was fast. It was dizzying.

I gripped the arms of the chair. The wood was cold. It was slick. It felt alive.

"Who are you?" I asked.

He smiled. It was not a smile. It was a twist. It was a crack in the mask.

"I am the truth," he said. "And the truth is a cage. And you are the bird that thinks it is the sky."

I did not understand. I wanted to understand. I wanted to scream. But I could not.

The air was thick. It was heavy. It pressed against my chest. It pressed against my eyes.

"Tell me," I whispered. "Tell me what I did."

He leaned in. His face was close. I could see the pores on his skin. I could see the veins in his neck. They were blue. They were tight.

"You did nothing," he said. "And that is the crime. You did nothing. You let them take her. You let them burn the books. You let them lock the doors. You sat there. You watched. You were silent."

My head spun.

I shook it. No. No. I was not silent. I was there. I was running. I was hiding.

I was afraid.

"I was afraid," I said.

"Fear is a coward’s shield," he said. "But you are not a coward. You are a monster. A monster that wears a child’s face."

I pulled back. I pushed against the chair. It did not move. It was fused to the floor.

I looked around. The room was shrinking. The walls were moving in. The corners were closing.

"Let me out," I said. "Please. Let me out."

Thomas laughed. It was a dry sound. It was like leaves rubbing together.

"There is no out," he said. "There is only in. In, in, in. Until you are nothing. Until you are dust. Until you are part of the wall."

I looked at the wall.

It was not stone.

It was not brick.

It was flesh.

Pale, smooth, breathing flesh.

I gagged. I turned away. I covered my mouth.

"Look," he commanded.

I did not look.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

I felt the heat. I felt the breath.

I felt the eyes.

Hundreds of eyes.

They were everywhere. In the floor. In the ceiling. In the air.

They were watching me.

They were judging me.

I opened my eyes.

Thomas was gone.

The room was empty.

But the walls were still moving.

They were closing in.

I stood up. I ran.

I ran to the door.

I grabbed the handle.

It was ice.

It burned my hand.

I pulled.

It did not budge.

I pulled harder.

My fingers slipped.

My nails broke.

I screamed.

The sound was loud. It was raw. It was human.

"Open!" I yelled. "Open!"

Nothing.

The door was solid. It was one piece with the wall.

I pushed. I kicked.

My foot hit the wood. It hurt.

I cried.

I fell to my knees.

I was on the floor. The floor was soft. It was warm. It was breathing.

I pressed my face into it.

I breathed in.

It smelled of iron.

It smelled of blood.

It smelled of home.

I lifted my head.

I was not alone.

A girl was there.

She sat in the corner. She was small. She was old. She had white hair. Her eyes were closed.

She was rocking. Back and forth. Back and forth.

"Hello," I said.

She did not open her eyes.

She kept rocking.

"Who are you?" I asked.

She did not answer.

I crawled toward her.

My knees scraped. The floor was sticky.

I reached her.

I touched her hand.

It was cold. It was dry. It was like bark.

She stopped rocking.

She opened her eyes.

They were not eyes.

They were holes.

Dark, deep, empty holes.

She smiled.

"I am you," she said.

Her voice was mine.

It was older. It was tired. It was done.

"I am the you that stayed," she said. "I am the you that did not run. I am the you that accepted the cage."

I looked at her.

I looked at my hands.

They were shaking.

They were stained.

They were red.

I looked at the walls.

The walls were watching.

I realized then.

I was not in a room.

I was in a head.

I was in the head of the monster.

I was the monster.

And the monster was lonely.

The monster was sad.

The monster was afraid.

I looked at the girl.

"I forgive you," I said.

She tilted her head.

"Forgive?" she asked. "There is nothing to forgive. There is only to be."

I closed my eyes.

I let go.

I let the fear go.

I let the anger go.

I let the guilt go.

I let myself be.

The walls stopped moving.

The light softened.

The air cleared.

The girl smiled.

It was a real smile.

It was warm.

It was gentle.

"I am going," she said.

"Where?" I asked.

"Into the light," she said. "Into the dark. Into the dream."

She stood up.

She walked to the door.

The door opened.

Light spilled in.

It was bright.

It was blinding.

She stepped through.

She did not look back.

I watched her go.

I felt a pain.

It was sharp.

It was clean.

It was the pain of release.

The door closed.

The room was empty again.

But it was quiet.

It was still.

It was mine.

I stood up.

I walked to the center of the room.

I looked at the walls.

They were still flesh.

But they were no longer breathing.

They were still.

They were calm.

I placed my hand on the wall.

It was warm.

It was soft.

It was alive.

I closed my eyes.

I felt the pulse.

It was slow.

It was steady.

It was mine.

I was the wall.

I was the door.

I was the key.

I was the lock.

I was the silence.

I was the sound.

I was everything.

And I was nothing.

And that was enough.

The bell rang again.

It was soft.

It was kind.

It was the end.