I dreamt of the floor. It was black tile. Cold. I woke with my knees aching. I touched the carpet. Rough. Dry. I was in the bedroom. The light was gray. It was morning. I sat up. My head throbbed. I thought of the dream. The floor. The cold. I rubbed my eyes. They felt gritty. I swung my legs over the bed. My feet hit the floor. Hard. I winced. The pain was sharp. It faded. I stood up. I looked around. The room was small. Sparse. A single window. A chair. A bed. I knew this room. I had lived here for months. I was not here to live. I was here to work.

I walked to the door. I opened it. The hallway was long. White. Quiet. I heard footsteps. Heavy. They stopped. I turned. A man stood there. He was tall. He wore a suit. Dark. He held a cup. Steam rose from it. He looked at me. I looked at him. I did not know his name. I knew his face. He was the one who kept the keys. He was the one who decided who ate.

"Morning," he said. His voice was low. Flat.

"Morning," I replied. I kept my head down.

He nodded. He took a sip. He watched me. I felt the weight of his eyes. They were cold. They were hungry. I turned away. I walked down the hall. I needed to get to the kitchen. I needed to be useful. I needed to be invisible.

The kitchen was busy. The air was thick. It smelled of grease. Of sweat. Of fear. There were three of us there. Me. And two others. They were young. They were thin. They moved fast. They did not speak. They did not look at each other. They worked. They washed dishes. They wiped tables. They polished the silver.

I picked up a rag. I wiped a counter. The surface was cold. Smooth. I wiped in circles. Back and forth. The motion was easy. The motion was safe. I focused on the spot. I did not look up. I did not want to see their faces. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to be the rag. I wanted to be the dust.

A shadow fell over me. I stopped. I did not look up. I knew who it was. The man in the suit. He was standing behind me. He smelled of coffee. Of tobacco. Of power.

"You are slow," he said.

I did not answer. I started wiping again. Faster.

"I said, you are slow."

I stopped. I turned. I looked at him. His face was pale. His eyes were dark. He leaned in. His breath was warm. It hit my face.

"I am trying," I whispered.

"Trying is not enough."

He straightened up. He walked away. His shoes clicked on the tile. The sound echoed. It rang in my ears. I stared at the spot on the counter. It was clean. It was too clean. I wiped it again. The rag was dry. I kept wiping. My arm ached. I did not stop. I could not stop.

The day went on. The hours blurred. I washed. I wiped. I polished. The silver shone. It reflected my face. It was distorted. It was small. It was weak. I looked away. I did not want to see myself. I did not want to see the weakness. I wanted to be strong. I wanted to be hard. Like the silver. Like the stone.

At noon, we ate. We ate in the back. In the room with the barred window. The food was cold. Bread. Stale soup. We ate quickly. We did not speak. We did not look at each other. We were alone together. The silence was loud. It pressed against our chests.

I looked at the boy next to me. He was eating slowly. He chewed the bread. He swallowed. He looked at me. His eyes were wide. They were wet. I looked away. I picked up my bowl. It was empty. I felt a pull in my gut. A hunger. It was not for food. It was for something else. I could not name it. I could not name the pain.

The afternoon was worse. The man in the suit came back. He walked among us. He inspected our work. He touched the tables. He touched the chairs. He touched us. His hand was cold. His hand was heavy. He touched my shoulder. He pushed me back. I stumbled. I caught myself. I did not fall. I stood up. I bowed.

"Thank you," I said.

He smiled. It was a thin smile. It did not reach his eyes. He walked away. I stood still. I felt the heat in my face. I felt the anger. It rose in my throat. It was hot. It was sharp. I wanted to scream. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to break something. I wanted to break him.

But I did not. I walked back to my station. I picked up the rag. I wiped the counter. The motion was mechanical. The motion was empty. I was not there. I was somewhere else. I was in the dream. I was on the black tile. I was cold. I was alone.

I looked at the boy again. He was watching me. He had a tear on his cheek. He wiped it away. He looked at the floor. He picked up a piece of bread. He held it in his hand. He did not eat it. He just held it.

I looked at him. I saw something in his eyes. It was not fear. It was not anger. It was recognition. He saw me. He saw the thing I hid. He saw the weakness. He saw the guilt.

I felt a jolt. It went through my body. It was electric. It was painful. I looked away. I kept wiping. The rag was wet. It was dirty. I squeezed it. The water dripped. It fell on the floor. It made a small puddle. It spread. It darkened the tile.

The man in the suit was watching. He saw the puddle. He saw me. He walked over. He stopped. He looked down. He looked at me.

"Careless," he said.

I picked up a dry cloth. I dried the floor. I wiped until it was clean. I wiped until my arm shook. I wiped until the spot was gone. I looked up. The man was still there. He was watching. He was waiting.

"I am sorry," I said.

He nodded. He turned. He left. I stayed there. I stood over the clean spot. I breathed. I felt the air in my lungs. It was thin. It was cold. I felt the boy’s eyes on me. I turned. He was gone. He was not in the kitchen. He was not in the hall. He was gone.

I felt a chill. It was not from the air. It was from inside. I felt empty. I felt hollow. I looked at the clock. It was late. The sun was setting. The light was orange. It was fading. The shadows were growing. They reached for us. They touched us.

I finished my work. I washed my hands. I dried them. I walked to the door. I opened it. The hallway was dark. I walked to the end. I opened the door. I stepped out. The air was cool. The night was quiet. I walked to the park. I sat on a bench. I looked at the sky. It was black. It was full of stars. They were small. They were far. They were cold.

I thought of the boy. I thought of his eyes. I thought of the bread. I thought of the puddle. I thought of the man. I thought of the dream. The floor. The cold. I closed my eyes. I let the darkness take me. I let the silence take me. I let the pain take me.

I was not afraid. I was not angry. I was not guilty. I was just there. I was just a shadow. I was just a breath. I was just a drop of water. I was just a speck of dust. I was nothing. I was everything. I was free.

I opened my eyes. The sky was gray. It was morning. I was back in the bedroom. I was in the chair. I was awake. I rubbed my eyes. I felt gritty. I stood up. I walked to the door. I opened it. The hallway was long. White. Quiet. I heard footsteps. Heavy. They stopped. I turned. The man in the suit stood there. He held a cup. Steam rose from it. He looked at me. I looked at him.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning," I replied.

He nodded. He took a sip. He watched me. I felt the weight of his eyes. I turned away. I walked down the hall. I needed to get to the kitchen. I needed to be useful. I needed to be invisible.

The kitchen was busy. The air was thick. It smelled of grease. Of sweat. Of fear. There were three of us there. Me. And two others. They were young. They were thin. They moved fast. They did not speak. They did not look at each other. They worked. They washed dishes. They wiped tables. They polished the silver.

I picked up a rag. I wiped a counter. The surface was cold. Smooth. I wiped in circles. Back and forth. The motion was easy. The motion was safe. I focused on the spot. I did not look up. I did not want to see their faces. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to be the rag. I wanted to be the dust.

A shadow fell over me. I stopped. I did not look up. I knew who it was. The man in the suit. He was standing behind me. He smelled of coffee. Of tobacco. Of power.

"You are slow," he said.

I did not answer. I started wiping again. Faster.

"I said, you are slow."

I stopped. I turned. I looked at him. His face was pale. His eyes were dark. He leaned in. His breath was warm. It hit my face.

"I am trying," I whispered.

"Trying is not enough."

He straightened up. He walked away. His shoes clicked on the tile. The sound echoed. It rang in my ears. I stared at the spot on the counter. It was clean. It was too clean. I wiped it again. The rag was dry. I kept wiping. My arm ached. I did not stop. I could not stop.

The day went on. The hours blurred. I washed. I wiped. I polished. The silver shone. It reflected my face. It was distorted. It was small. It was weak. I looked away. I did not want to see myself. I did not want to see the weakness. I wanted to be strong. I wanted to be hard. Like the silver. Like the stone.

At noon, we ate. We ate in the back. In the room with the barred window. The food was cold. Bread. Stale soup. We ate quickly. We did not speak. We did not look at each other. We were alone together. The silence was loud. It pressed against our chests.

I looked at the boy next to me. He was eating slowly. He chewed the bread. He swallowed. He looked at me. His eyes were wide. They were wet. I looked away. I picked up my bowl. It was empty. I felt a pull in my gut. A hunger. It was not for food. It was for something else. I could not name it. I could not name the pain.

The afternoon was worse. The man in the suit came back. He walked among us. He inspected our work. He touched the tables. He touched the chairs. He touched us. His hand was cold. His hand was heavy. He touched my shoulder. He pushed me back. I stumbled. I caught myself. I did not fall. I stood up. I bowed.

"Thank you," I said.

He smiled. It was a thin smile. It did not reach his eyes. He walked away. I stood still. I felt the heat in my face. I felt the anger. It rose in my throat. It was hot. It was sharp. I wanted to scream. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to break something. I wanted to break him.

But I did not. I walked back to my station. I picked up the rag. I wiped the counter. The motion was mechanical. The motion was empty. I was not there. I was somewhere else. I was in the dream. I was on the black tile. I was cold. I was alone.

I looked at the boy again. He was watching me. He had a tear on his cheek. He wiped it away. He looked at the floor. He picked up a piece of bread. He held it in his hand. He did not eat it. He just held it.

I looked at him. I saw something in his eyes. It was not fear. It was not anger. It was recognition. He saw me. He saw the thing I hid. He saw the weakness. He saw the guilt.

I felt a jolt. It went through my body. It was electric. It was painful. I looked away. I kept wiping. The rag was wet. It was dirty. I squeezed it. The water dripped. It fell on the floor. It made a small puddle. It spread. It darkened the tile.

The man in the suit was watching. He saw the puddle. He saw me. He walked over. He stopped. He looked down. He looked at me.

"Careless," he said.

I picked up a dry cloth. I dried the floor. I wiped until it was clean. I wiped until my arm shook. I wiped until the spot was gone. I looked up. The man was still there. He was watching. He was waiting.

"I am sorry," I said.

He nodded. He turned. He left. I stayed there. I stood over the clean spot. I breathed. I felt the air in my lungs. It was thin. It was cold. I felt the boy’s eyes on me. I turned. He was gone. He was not in the kitchen. He was not in the hall. He was gone.

I felt a chill. It was not from the air. It was from inside. I felt empty. I felt hollow. I looked at the clock. It was late. The sun was setting. The light was orange. It was fading. The shadows were growing. They reached for us. They touched us.

I finished my work. I washed my hands. I dried them. I walked to the door. I opened it. The hallway was dark. I walked to the end. I opened the door. I stepped out. The air was cool. The night was quiet. I walked to the park. I sat on a bench. I looked at the sky. It was black. It was full of stars. They were small. They were far. They were cold.

I thought of the boy. I thought of his eyes. I thought of the bread. I thought of the puddle. I thought of the man. I thought of the dream. The floor. The cold. I closed my eyes. I let the darkness take me. I let the silence take me. I let the pain take me.

I was not afraid. I was not angry. I was not guilty. I was just there. I was just a shadow. I was just a breath. I was just a drop of water. I was just a speck of dust. I was nothing. I was everything. I was free.