The air smells of lilies and old paper. You sit at the desk. It is oak. It is cold. You are Margaret. You are writing. The pen scratches. It is a sound like a small animal dying.

Outside, the rain hits the glass. It is November. The light is thin. You look at the window. You see the reflection of the room. You see the chair. You see the clock. The hands move. They do not stop. They never stop.

You think of the garden. It is in your mind. It is always in your mind. The roses are there. The white roses. They are tall. They are strong. They bend in the wind. They do not break. They stay. They remain.

You write the date. You write the time. You do not know why you record these things. It feels important. It feels like a defense.

The door opens. It is a heavy sound. You do not look up. You know who it is. It is Thomas. He walks in. He wears his grey suit. The fabric is worn at the elbows. He smells of rain and tobacco. He does not speak. He sits in the chair across from you.

The silence is thick. It presses against your ears. You can hear your own heart. It beats fast. It beats hard. It is a drum in a small room.

You look at him. His eyes are red. He looks tired. He looks defeated. You see the lines on his face. They are deep. They are like cracks in dry earth.

You want to speak. Your mouth is dry. You swallow. The sound is loud in the quiet.

Thomas leans forward. He rests his elbows on the table. He puts his head in his hands. The grey hair is visible. It is thin. You remember when it was thick. You remember when it was black. That was a long time ago. That was another life.

You do not touch him. You are afraid to touch him. You are afraid that if you touch him, he will break. He is already broken. You can see it.

You continue to write. The pen moves. The words form. You write about the garden. You write about the rain. You write about the cold.

Thomas looks up. He sees you writing. He frowns. He is confused. He is angry. The anger is quiet. It sits behind his eyes.

He speaks. His voice is low. It is rough.

You do not look at him. You keep writing. The pen does not stop. Your hand does not stop. You are a machine. You are a tool. You serve the words.

Thomas stands up. The chair scrapes against the floor. The sound is sharp. It cuts the air. He paces. He walks from the door to the window. He walks back. He walks to the door. He is a caged bird.

He stops. He turns to you. He points at the paper.

You ignore him. You look at the page. The ink is black. It is dry. It is permanent.

Thomas speaks again. He is louder now. His voice shakes. It is not a shout. It is a cry. It is a prayer.

You hear the words. They are like stones. They fall into the water of your mind. They make ripples. They make circles. The circles expand. They touch the edges. They touch the glass.

You stop writing. You put the pen down. The silence returns. It is heavier now. It is crushing.

Thomas sits down. He is exhausted. He breathes hard. His chest rises and falls. It is a struggle. It is a fight for air.

You look at him. You see his pain. It is real. It is physical. You feel it in your own body. It is a weight. It is a stone in your stomach.

You want to help. You do not know how. You have no tools. You have no hands. You are empty. You are hollow.

You think of the roses. They are not there. They are in your head. They are safe. They are perfect. They do not suffer. They do not speak. They do not lie.

Thomas looks at you. His eyes are wet. He is crying. The tears fall. They land on the table. They are small. They are precious.

You reach out. Your hand trembles. You touch his face. Your fingers are cold. His skin is warm. The contrast is shocking. It is electric. It burns.

He leans into your hand. He closes his eyes. He leans into you. He is heavy. He is solid. He is real.

You hold him. You do not speak. There are no words. Words are useless. Words are lies. Words are cages.

You hold him for a long time. The rain continues. It hammers on the glass. It is relentless. It is cruel.

The clock ticks. The seconds pass. The minutes pass. The hours pass.

You do not know how much time has gone by. It does not matter. Time is a construct. Time is a story. The story is over.

Thomas opens his eyes. He looks at you. He is calm now. The anger is gone. The confusion is gone. There is only peace. It is a fragile peace. It is a thin ice.

He stands up. He straightens his suit. He buttons his jacket. He looks composed. He looks like a man. He looks like a stranger.

He walks to the door. He pauses. He looks back.

You look at him. You hold the pen. You hold the paper. You are still. You are a statue.

He leaves. The door closes. The latch clicks. The sound is final.

The room is empty. The chair is empty. The air is still.

You sit alone. The silence is absolute. It is total. It is complete.

You look at the paper. The words are there. They are black. They are clear. They are true.

You look at the window. The rain has stopped. The clouds are breaking. The light is coming. It is pale. It is cold. It is beautiful.

You think of the garden. The roses are blooming. They are white. They are pure. They are eternal.

You pick up the pen. You do not write. You hold it. You look at the tip. It is sharp. It is dark.

You look at your hand. It is your hand. It is yours. It is real.

You stand up. Your legs are stiff. Your joints ache. The pain is sharp. It is familiar.

You walk to the window. You open it. The air rushes in. It is cold. It is wet. It smells of earth. It smells of life.

You lean out. You look down. The garden is below. The grass is wet. The flowers are heavy. They bow their heads. They do not break. They stay. They remain.

You breathe in. The air fills your lungs. It is cold. It is clean. It is new.

You breathe out. The breath is a cloud. It disappears. It vanishes.

You are here. You are now. You are real.

You close the window. The glass is cold. You touch it. You feel the chill.

You go back to the desk. You sit down. The chair is warm. It is your chair. It is yours.

You look at the paper. The words are there. They are your words. They are your truth.

You do not read them. You do not need to. You know what they say. You know what they mean.

You pick up the pen. You write one last word.

It is your name.

Margaret.

The ink dries. The page is still. The room is quiet.

The light fades. The dark comes. It is gentle. It is soft. It is kind.

You are not afraid. You are not sad. You are not happy.

You are empty. You are full.

You are free.

The clock stops. The hands still. The time ends.

The roses bloom.

The rain falls.

The light shines.

The story ends.

The silence remains.

You are there.

You are still.

You are whole.