"You're late."

The voice was small. It cut through the heavy air of the living room. Leo stood by the window. The glass was cold against his fingertips. He was twelve. He felt old.

"I missed the bus," he said. His voice shook. He hated his own voice. It sounded like a stranger.

The bus had been crowded. People smelled like wet wool and sweat. Leo had held his breath. He counted the seconds. One. Two. Three. He waited for the doors to open. They did not open. The driver did not look at him. Leo ran. His sneakers slapped the pavement. He slipped on a puddle. He fell. He got up. He ran again. His lungs burned.

He looked at the clock on the wall. It ticked. The sound was loud. It was a hammer. It hit his head.

"Sit down," the voice said.

Leo sat on the edge of the sofa. The leather creaked. It smelled of polish and dust. His grandfather, Arthur, sat in the armchair. Arthur did not look up. He held a newspaper. The paper was yellow. It was old.

Arthur was old. His skin was like paper. It was thin. It was pale. His eyes were small. They were bright. They did not blink much.

"Take off your shoes," Arthur said.

Leo took off his shoes. His socks were wet. He felt the cold floor. The wood was hard.

"Stay there," Arthur said.

Leo stayed. He looked at his hands. They were dirty. There was mud on his knees. He wiped it on his jeans. The mud smeared. It looked like a bruise.

The room was quiet. The clock ticked. Tick. Tick. Tick. Leo counted the ticks. He wanted to leave. He wanted to run. His legs were tired. His knees ached.

"Look at me," Arthur said.

Leo looked up. Arthur’s face was still. It was a mask. There was no smile. There was no anger. There was only a blankness. It was frightening.

"Why are you always late?" Arthur asked.

"Because of the bus," Leo said.

"The bus is on time. You are not."

Leo opened his mouth. He wanted to argue. He wanted to say the bus was full. He wanted to say he fell. He wanted to say he ran. He said nothing. His throat was tight.

Arthur folded the newspaper. He placed it on the side table. The sound was sharp. It cracked the silence.

"Do you know what time it is?" Arthur asked.

"It's four o'clock," Leo said.

"It is four fifteen. The time matters. Time is the only thing we have. And we are wasting it."

Leo felt a sting in his chest. It was not pain. It was something else. It was a hollow feeling. He felt empty. He felt like a shell.

"I'm sorry," Leo said. The words tasted like ash.

Arthur did not answer. He leaned back in the chair. He closed his eyes. He looked like he was sleeping. But his hands were still. They were clenched. They were tight.

Leo looked at the door. The door was closed. The handle was brass. It was shiny. Leo wanted to open it. He wanted to run out. He wanted to go to his friends. He wanted to go to the park. He wanted to be anywhere else.

But he did not move. His legs were locked. They were heavy. They were made of stone.

"Get me the water," Arthur said.

Leo stood up. He walked to the kitchen. The floor was cold. His bare feet made no sound. He opened the fridge. The light was bright. It hurt his eyes. He took the bottle of water. It was cold. It was covered in condensation.

He walked back to the living room. The clock ticked. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Arthur’s eyes were open. They were fixed on Leo. They did not move. They did not blink.

"Here," Leo said. He held out the bottle.

Arthur took it. He did not drink. He held it in his lap. He looked at the water. He looked at Leo.

"Pour it," Arthur said.

Leo poured the water into the glass on the side table. The water splashed. It hit the rim. It dripped down the side.

"Careless," Arthur said.

Leo looked at the glass. The water was clear. It was cold. It reflected the light from the window.

"Clean it up," Arthur said.

Leo picked up the cloth. He wiped the table. He wiped his hands. He wiped his face. He felt sweat on his forehead. It was cold.

The room felt smaller. The walls were closing in. The shadows in the corners were deep. They were black. They were waiting.

"Why do you do this?" Leo asked. His voice was quiet. It was barely a whisper.

Arthur did not look at him. He drank the water. He drank it slowly. He drank it all.

He put the glass down. He looked at Leo.

"Because you are not ready," Arthur said.

"Ready for what?"

"For life. For the end."

Leo felt a shock. It went through his body. It was like an electric current. It made his teeth vibrate.

"I don't want to die," Leo said.

Arthur smiled. It was a small smile. It was thin. It was sad.

"You will," Arthur said.

Leo stepped back. His foot slipped on the polished floor. He fell. He hit the floor hard. His knees throbbed. He lay there. He looked at the ceiling. The ceiling was white. It was plain.

"Get up," Arthur said.

Leo got up. He brushed the dust off his jeans. He felt dirt on his hands. He felt pain in his knees.

"I'm leaving," Leo said.

He walked to the door. He grabbed the handle. He turned it. The lock clicked. It was a loud sound. It echoed in the house.

He opened the door. The hallway was dark. The light from the living room spilled out. It made a yellow patch on the floor.

"Where are you going?" Arthur asked.

"Home," Leo said.

"It is your home."

"No. It is your house. It is not my home."

Leo walked into the hallway. He walked quickly. His bare feet were cold. He passed the mirror. He looked at himself. He saw a boy. He saw a stranger. He saw a ghost.

He reached the front door. He opened it. The cold air hit his face. It was sharp. It was clean. It smelled of rain.

He stepped out. He closed the door behind him. The lock clicked. The sound was final.

He stood on the porch. The mist was thick. It was white. It was soft. It covered the garden. It covered the street. It covered the world.

Leo looked down. He saw his feet. They were bare. They were cold. They were real.

He started to walk. He walked down the street. The mist swallowed his legs. It swallowed his waist. It swallowed his chest.

He walked faster. He ran. He ran through the mist. The mist was thick. It was heavy. It was cold.

He ran until his lungs burned. He ran until his legs gave out. He fell in the park. He lay on the grass. The grass was wet. It was cold.

He looked up. The sky was gray. It was vast. It was empty.

He felt a tear on his cheek. It was hot. It was salty.

He did not wipe it away. He let it fall. He let it hit the grass.

He lay there. He listened to the wind. The wind was soft. It was quiet. It was sad.

He closed his eyes. He felt the ground beneath him. It was solid. It was real.

He thought of Arthur. He thought of the clock. He thought of the water. He thought of the mud.

He realized he was afraid. He was afraid of the end. He was afraid of the time. He was afraid of the silence.

But he was also free. He was out. He was away. He was alone.

The mist rolled in. It covered him. It covered the world. It covered the pain.

He waited. He waited for the sun. He waited for the light. He waited for the morning.

He did not move. He did not breathe. He just waited.

The mist stayed. It did not lift. It did not clear. It stayed.

Leo lay in the mist. He was small. He was young. He was alive.

He was afraid. He was free.

He was home.