You wake.

The air is thick.

It smells of wet stone and old blood.

You are in the cellar.

The walls are damp.

You touch them.

They are cold.

You are Margaret.

You are old.

You know this.

You do not remember your name.

But you know the weight of it.

It sits in your chest.

It is heavy.

It is a stone.

It is a seal.

You have seen it before.

You have always seen it.

It is on the door.

It is a symbol.

A circle with a line through it.

It means stop.

It means end.

But you do not stop.

You do not end.

You stand up.

Your knees crack.

They are stiff.

They are old.

You look at the door.

It is locked.

The lock is iron.

It is rusted.

It is strong.

You pull at it.

It does not move.

You push.

It does not move.

You breathe.

Your breath is shallow.

It rattles in your throat.

You are sick.

You have always been sick.

The sickness is in your bones.

It is in your mind.

It is in the seal.

A light comes from above.

It is a square of gold.

It is the sky.

It is far away.

You look up.

You see a face.

It is Thomas.

He is young.

He is tall.

He wears a gray coat.

His face is pale.

His eyes are dark.

He looks at you.

He does not smile.

"Margaret," he says.

His voice is soft.

It is like wind.

It is like rain.

"How are you?" he asks.

You do not answer.

You cannot.

Your tongue is heavy.

It is thick.

It is dead.

You look at him.

You want to speak.

You want to tell him.

You want to say the truth.

But you cannot.

You only nod.

He nods back.

He holds a key.

It is small.

It is silver.

It is cold.

He holds it out to you.

You reach for it.

Your hand shakes.

It is a tremor.

It is a spasm.

You take the key.

It is cold in your hand.

It is real.

You put it in the lock.

You turn it.

The lock clicks.

It is a loud sound.

It is a sharp sound.

It echoes in the room.

The door opens.

It creaks.

It groans.

It swings wide.

Light floods in.

It is blinding.

It is white.

You step out.

You stand in the hall.

It is long.

It is narrow.

It is empty.

Thomas stands behind you.

He is close.

You can feel his breath.

It is warm.

It is wet.

"Go," he says.

"Go now."

You walk.

Your feet are bare.

They are cold on the stone.

The stone is smooth.

It is polished.

It is dead.

You walk to the stairs.

You climb them.

Step by step.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

Your legs burn.

Your lungs burn.

Your heart burns.

You reach the top.

You are in the room.

It is the master’s room.

It is large.

It is round.

The walls are red.

They are brick.

There is a bed.

The bed is high.

The sheets are white.

They are clean.

They are soft.

There is a chair.

The chair is wood.

It is hard.

It is bare.

You sit down.

You lean back.

You close your eyes.

You are safe.

You are here.

You are alive.

But you are not free.

You open your eyes.

Thomas is there.

He stands by the window.

The window is open.

The wind blows in.

It is cold.

It is sharp.

It bites your skin.

He looks at you.

He holds the key.

It is in his hand.

It is silver.

It is cold.

"Give it to me," you say.

Your voice is low.

It is rough.

It is dry.

He does not move.

He does not speak.

He just looks.

"Give it to me," you say again.

Your voice is louder.

It is angry.

It is fierce.

He smiles.

It is a small smile.

It is a thin smile.

It is a lie.

"You cannot have it," he says.

"Who are you?" you ask.

He does not answer.

He turns away.

He looks out the window.

The sky is gray.

It is dark.

It is stormy.

Thunder rolls.

It is a low rumble.

It is a growl.

It is a threat.

"Thomas," you say.

He turns back.

His face is blank.

It is stone.

It is ice.

"Tell me the truth," you say.

He steps forward.

He is close.

You can see his eyes.

They are dark.

They are deep.

They are empty.

"I am the doctor," he says.

"I am the keeper."

"I am the one who saves you."

You laugh.

It is a dry laugh.

It is a harsh laugh.

It is a scream.

"You are the jailer," you say.

He frowns.

His brow is furrowed.

It is tight.

It is angry.

"No," he says.

"I am the savior."

"You are the liar," you say.

He steps closer.

He is in your face.

You can smell him.

He smells of sweat.

He smells of fear.

He smells of rot.

"I know what you did," you say.

"I know what you are."

He shakes his head.

It is a slow shake.

It is a denial.

"It is not true," he says.

"It is not real."

"Look at your hand," you say.

He looks down.

He looks at his hand.

It is empty.

The key is gone.

It is in your hand.

It is silver.

It is cold.

He looks at you.

His eyes are wide.

His mouth is open.

He cannot speak.

He cannot breathe.

He is afraid.

He is small.

He is nothing.

You stand up.

You are tall.

You are strong.

You are the storm.

You walk to the door.

The door is open.

The hall is empty.

The light is gone.

It is dark.

It is night.

You walk into the dark.

You walk down the stairs.

Step by step.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

You reach the bottom.

You are in the cellar.

The walls are damp.

They are cold.

You touch them.

They are wet.

You look at the door.

It is the same door.

The lock is iron.

It is rusted.

It is strong.

You look at the seal.

The circle with the line.

It is there.

It is on the wall.

It is on the door.

It is on your skin.

You touch it.

It is warm.

It is alive.

It is you.

You are the seal.

You are the lock.

You are the key.

You are the prison.

You are the prisoner.

You are the keeper.

You are the doctor.

You are Thomas.

You are Margaret.

You are both.

You are one.

You are the cycle.

You are the wheel.

It turns.

It turns.

It turns.

You stop.

You breathe.

The air is thick.

It is heavy.

It is dead.

You look at the door.

It is closed.

It is locked.

You have the key.

It is in your hand.

It is silver.

It is cold.

You put it in the lock.

You turn it.

The lock clicks.

The door opens.

Light floods in.

It is blinding.

It is white.

You step out.

You are in the hall.

Thomas is there.

He is young.

He is tall.

He wears a gray coat.

His face is pale.

His eyes are dark.

He looks at you.

He does not smile.

"Margaret," he says.

His voice is soft.

It is like wind.

It is like rain.

"How are you?" he asks.

You do not answer.

You cannot.

Your tongue is heavy.

It is thick.

It is dead.

You look at him.

You want to speak.

You want to tell him.

You want to say the truth.

But you cannot.

You only nod.

He nods back.

He holds a key.

It is small.

It is silver.

It is cold.

He holds it out to you.

You reach for it.

Your hand shakes.

It is a tremor.

It is a spasm.

You take the key.

It is cold in your hand.

It is real.

You put it in the lock.

You turn it.

The lock clicks.

The door opens.

Light floods in.

It is blinding.

It is white.

You step out.

You are in the hall.

The hall is long.

It is narrow.

It is empty.

Thomas stands behind you.

He is close.

You can feel his breath.

It is warm.

It is wet.

"Go," he says.

"Go now."

You walk.

Your feet are bare.

They are cold on the stone.

The stone is smooth.

It is polished.

It is dead.

You walk to the stairs.

You climb them.

Step by step.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

Your legs burn.

Your lungs burn.

Your heart burns.

You reach the top.

You are in the room.

It is the master’s room.

It is large.

It is round.

The walls are red.

They are brick.

There is a bed.

The bed is high.

The sheets are white.

They are clean.

They are soft.

There is a chair.

The chair is wood.

It is hard.

It is bare.

You sit down.

You lean back.

You close your eyes.

You are safe.

You are here.

You are alive.

But you are not free.

You open your eyes.

Thomas is there.

He stands by the window.

The window is open.

The wind blows in.

It is cold.

It is sharp.

It bites your skin.

He looks at you.

He holds the key.

It is in his hand.

It is silver.

It is cold.

"Give it to me," you say.

Your voice is low.

It is rough.

It is dry.

He does not move.

He does not speak.

He just looks.

"Give it to me," you say again.

Your voice is louder.

It is angry.

It is fierce.

He smiles.

It is a small smile.

It is a thin smile.

It is a lie.

"You cannot have it," he says.

"Who are you?" you ask.

He does not answer.

He turns away.

He looks out the window.

The sky is gray.

It is dark.

It is stormy.

Thunder rolls.

It is a low rumble.

It is a growl.

It is a threat.

"Thomas," you say.

He turns back.

His face is blank.

It is stone.

It is ice.

"Tell me the truth," you say.

He steps forward.

He is close.

You can see his eyes.

They are dark.

They are deep.

They are empty.

"I am the doctor," he says.

"I am the keeper."

"I am the one who saves you."

You laugh.

It is a dry laugh.

It is a harsh laugh.

It is a scream.

"You are the jailer," you say.

He frowns.

His brow is furrowed.

It is tight.

It is angry.

"No," he says.

"I am the savior."

"You are the liar," you say.

He steps closer.

He is in your face.

You can smell him.

He smells of sweat.

He smells of fear.

He smells of rot.

"I know what you did," you say.

"I know what you are."

He shakes his head.

It is a slow shake.

It is a denial.

"It is not true," he says.

"It is not real."

"Look at your hand," you say.

He looks down.

He looks at his hand.

It is empty.

The key is gone.

It is in your hand.

It is silver.

It is cold.

He looks at you.

His eyes are wide.

His mouth is open.

He cannot speak.

He cannot breathe.

He is afraid.

He is small.

He is nothing.

You stand up.

You are tall.

You are strong.

You are the storm.

You walk to the door.

The door is open.

The hall is empty.

The light is gone.

It is dark.

It is night.

You walk into the dark.

You walk down the stairs.

Step by step.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

You reach the bottom.

You are in the cellar.

The walls are damp.

They are cold.

You touch them.

They are wet.

You look at the door.

It is the same door.

The lock is iron.

It is rusted.

It is strong.

You look at the seal.

The circle with the line.

It is there.

It is on the wall.

It is on the door.

It is on your skin.

You touch it.

It is warm.

It is alive.

It is you.

You are the seal.

You are the lock.

You are the key.

You are the prison.

You are the prisoner.

You are the keeper.

You are the doctor.

You are Thomas.

You are Margaret.

You are both.

You are one.

You are the cycle.

You are the wheel.

It turns.

It turns.

It turns.

You stop.

You breathe.

The air is thick.

It is heavy.

It is dead.

You look at the door.

It is closed.

It is locked.

You have the key.

It is in your hand.

It is silver.

It is cold.

You put it in the lock.

You turn it.

The lock clicks.

The door opens.

Light floods in.

It is blinding.

It is white.

You step out.

You are in the hall.

Thomas is there.

He is young.

He is tall.

He wears a gray coat.

His face is pale.

His eyes are dark.

He looks at you.

He does not smile.

"Margaret," he says.

His voice is soft.

It is like wind.

It is like rain.

"How are you?" he asks.

You do not answer.

You cannot.

Your tongue is heavy.

It is thick.

It is dead.

You look at him.

You want to speak.

You want to tell him.

You want to say the truth.

But you cannot.

You only nod.

He nods back.

He holds a key.

It is small.

It is silver.

It is cold.

He holds it out to you.

You reach for it.

Your hand shakes.

It is a tremor.

It is a spasm.

You take the key.

It is cold in your hand.

It is real.

You put it in the lock.

You turn it.

The lock clicks.

The door opens.

Light floods in.

It is blinding.

It is white.

You step out.

You are in the hall.

The hall is long.

It is narrow.

It is empty.

Thomas stands behind you.

He is close.

You can feel his breath.

It is warm.

It is wet.

"Go," he says.

"Go now."

You walk.

Your feet are bare.

They are cold on the stone.

The stone is smooth.

It is polished.

It is dead.

You walk to the stairs.

You climb them.

Step by step.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

Your legs burn.

Your lungs burn.

Your heart burns.

You reach the top.

You are in the room.

It is the master’s room.

It is large.

It is round.

The walls are red.

They are brick.

There is a bed.

The bed is high.

The sheets are white.

They are clean.

They are soft.

There is a chair.

The chair is wood.

It is hard.

It is bare.

You sit down.

You lean back.

You close your eyes.

You are safe.

You are here.

You are alive.

But you are not free.

You open your eyes.

Thomas is there.

He stands by the window.

The window is open.

The wind blows in.

It is cold.

It is sharp.

It bites your skin.

He looks at you.

He holds the key.

It is in his hand.

It is silver.

It is cold.

"Give it to me," you say.

Your voice is low.

It is rough.

It is dry.

He does not move.

He does not speak.

He just looks.

"Give it to me," you say again.

Your voice is louder.

It is angry.

It is fierce.

He smiles.

It is a small smile.

It is a thin smile.

It is a lie.

"You cannot have it," he says.

"Who are you?" you ask.

He does not answer.

He turns away.

He looks out the window.

The sky is gray.

It is dark.

It is stormy.

Thunder rolls.

It is a low rumble.

It is a growl.

It is a threat.

"Thomas," you say.

He turns back.

His face is blank.

It is stone.

It is ice.

"Tell me the truth," you say.

He steps forward.

He is close.

You can see his eyes.

They are dark.

They are deep.

They are empty.

"I am the doctor," he says.

"I am the keeper."

"I am the one who saves you."

You laugh.

It is a dry laugh.

It is a harsh laugh.

It is a scream.

"You are the jailer," you say.

He frowns.

His brow is furrowed.

It is tight.

It is angry.

"No," he says.

"I am the savior."

"You are the liar," you say.

He steps closer.

He is in your face.

You can smell him.

He smells of sweat.

He smells of fear.

He smells of rot.

"I know what you did," you say.

"I know what you are."

He shakes his head.

It is a slow shake.

It is a denial.

"It is not true," he says.

"It is not real."

"Look at your hand," you say.

He looks down.

He looks at his hand.

It is empty.

The key is gone.

It is in your hand.

It is silver.

It is cold.

He looks at you.

His eyes are wide.

His mouth is open.

He cannot speak.

He cannot breathe.

He is afraid.

He is small.

He is nothing.

You stand up.

You are tall.

You are strong.

You are the storm.

You walk to the door.

The door is open.

The hall is empty.

The light is gone.

It is dark.

It is night.

You walk into the dark.

You walk down the stairs.

Step by step.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

You reach the bottom.

You are in the cellar.

The walls are damp.

They are cold.

You touch them.

They are wet.

You look at the door.

It is the same door.

The lock is iron.

It is rusted.

It is strong.

You look at the seal.

The circle with the line.

It is there.

It is on the wall.

It is on the door.

It is on your skin.

You touch it.

It is warm.

It is alive.

It is you.

You are the seal.

You are the lock.

You are the key.

You are the prison.

You are the prisoner.

You are the keeper.

You are the doctor.

You are Thomas.

You are Margaret.

You are both.

You are one.

You are the cycle.

You are the wheel.

It turns.

It turns.

It turns.

You stop.

You breathe.

The air is thick.

It is heavy.

It is dead.

You look at the door.

It is closed.

It is locked.

You have the key.

It is in your hand.

It is silver.

It is cold.

You put it in the lock.

You turn it.

The lock clicks.

The door opens.

Light floods in.

It is blinding.

It is white.

You step out.

You are in the hall.

Thomas is there.

He is young.

He is tall.

He wears a gray coat.

His face is pale.

His eyes are dark.

He looks at you.

He does not smile.

"Margaret," he says.

His voice is soft.

It is like wind.

It is like rain.

"How are you?" he asks.

You do not answer.

You cannot.

Your tongue is heavy.

It is thick.

It is dead.

You look at him.

You want to speak.

You want to tell him.

You want to say the truth.

But you cannot.

You only nod.

He nods back.

He holds a key.

It is small.

It is silver.

It is cold.

He holds it out to you.

You reach for it.

Your hand shakes.

It is a tremor.

It is a spasm.

You take the key.

It is cold in your hand.

It is real.

You put it in the lock.

You turn it.

The lock clicks.

The door opens.

Light floods in.

It is blinding.

It is white.

You step out.

You are in the hall.

The hall is long.

It is narrow.

It is empty.

Thomas stands behind you.

He is close.

You can feel his breath.

It is warm.

It is wet.

"Go," he says.

"Go now."

You walk.

Your feet are bare.

They are cold on the stone.

The stone is smooth.

It is polished.

It is dead.

You walk to the stairs.

You climb them.

Step by step.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

Your legs burn.

Your lungs burn.

Your heart burns.

You reach the top.

You are in the room.

It is the master’s room.

It is large.

It is round.

The walls are red.

They are brick.

There is a bed.

The bed is high.

The sheets are white.

They are clean.

They are soft.

There is a chair.

The chair is wood.

It is hard.

It is bare.

You sit down.

You lean back.

You close your eyes.

You are safe.

You are here.

You are alive.

But you are not free.

You open your eyes.

Thomas is there.

He stands by the window.

The window is open.

The wind blows in.

It is cold.

It is sharp.

It bites your skin.

He looks at you.

He holds the key.

It is in his hand.

It is silver.

It is cold.

"Give