The rain had no sound.

It fell in sheets of grey silence.

Dr. Elias Thorne woke.

He was in the study.

The room was vast.

The ceiling was high.

Dust motes danced in the air.

They moved with purpose.

They moved with intent.

Elias sat up.

His head was heavy.

His skin was cold.

He looked at his hands.

They were pale.

They were thin.

The veins stood out.

They were like roots.

They were like wires.

He felt a pain.

It was in his chest.

It was a dull ache.

It was a constant hum.

He knew this pain.

He had known it for years.

It was his companion.

It was his shadow.

The window was open.

The rain came in.

It soaked the rug.

It soaked the floor.

The water pooled.

It reflected the light.

It reflected the dark.

Elias stood up.

He moved slowly.

His legs were stiff.

He walked to the desk.

The desk was oak.

It was old.

It was worn.

There were books.

They were thick.

They were heavy.

They were on the shelf.

They were in a row.

They were aligned.

Elias picked up one.

It was a treatise.

It was on disease.

It was on decay.

He opened it.

The pages were brittle.

They cracked under his touch.

He read a line.

It was about loss.

It was about time.

He closed the book.

He put it back.

He walked to the window.

He looked out.

The garden was there.

The trees were bare.

The branches were black.

They were like fingers.

They reached for the sky.

They reached for the void.

Elias watched them.

He watched for a long time.

The rain did not stop.

The air was still.

The silence was thick.

It was a weight.

It pressed on him.

He felt it in his bones.

He felt it in his mind.

He turned away.

He walked to the door.

The door was wood.

It was dark.

It was solid.

He opened it.

The hallway was long.

The floor was stone.

It was cold.

He walked down it.

He walked slowly.

He walked with care.

His footsteps echoed.

They sounded hollow.

They sounded empty.

He reached the kitchen.

The kitchen was large.

It was clean.

It was empty.

The stove was cold.

The pots were still.

The chairs were stacked.

There was no one.

There was no movement.

There was no life.

Elias felt a fear.

It was a cold fear.

It was a deep fear.

It was a primal fear.

He knew he was alone.

He had always been alone.

Or so he thought.

He walked back.

He walked to the study.

He sat down.

He waited.

He waited for something.

He waited for a sign.

He waited for a voice.

The rain continued.

The dust continued.

The silence continued.

He looked at the clock.

The clock was gold.

It was on the wall.

It did not tick.

The hands were still.

They were frozen.

They were stopped.

Elias stared at it.

He stared for hours.

Or perhaps days.

Time was fluid.

Time was broken.

He could not tell.

He felt a change.

It was in the air.

It was in the room.

The air grew thin.

The air grew sharp.

It tasted of iron.

It tasted of blood.

He knew what it meant.

He knew what was coming.

He did not fight it.

He did not resist.

He accepted it.

He accepted the end.

He accepted the truth.

The door opened.

It opened without sound.

A figure entered.

It was small.

It was grey.

It was a woman.

She was old.

Her hair was white.

Her face was lined.

She wore a dress.

The dress was dark.

The dress was plain.

She walked to him.

She walked slowly.

She stopped before him.

She looked at him.

Her eyes were dark.

Her eyes were deep.

They held no light.

They held no life.

She spoke.

Her voice was soft.

Her voice was low.

It was like wind.

It was like leaves.

She said his name.

Elias.

She said it clearly.

She said it gently.

She said it with care.

Elias looked at her.

He did not know her.

He did not recognize her.

But he felt her.

He felt her presence.

He felt her weight.

He felt her grief.

It was a heavy grief.

It was a deep grief.

It was a shared grief.

He realized then.

He had not been alone.

He had never been alone.

The walls were not empty.

The rooms were not bare.

They were full.

They were filled with people.

They were filled with ghosts.

They were filled with memory.

They were filled with love.

The woman raised her hand.

She touched his face.

Her hand was cold.

Her hand was soft.

It was a touch of peace.

It was a touch of release.

Elias felt the pain.

The pain in his chest.

It began to fade.

It began to dissolve.

It began to disappear.

He felt light.

He felt free.

He felt whole.

He looked at the woman.

He smiled.

It was a small smile.

It was a quiet smile.

It was a final smile.

The woman smiled back.

It was a sad smile.

It was a loving smile.

It was a goodbye smile.

She stepped back.

She faded.

She became mist.

She became air.

She became nothing.

The room was empty again.

The rain had stopped.

The light was coming.

The sun was rising.

The dust was gone.

The silence was gone.

Elias stood up.

He walked to the window.

He opened it.

The air was fresh.

The air was clean.

The air was new.

He breathed it in.

He breathed it out.

He felt the world.

He felt the life.

He felt the connection.

He was part of it.

He was part of the whole.

He was not separate.

He was not alone.

He was one with it.

He was one with the trees.

He was one with the rain.

He was one with the dust.

He was one with the silence.

He was one with the truth.

He closed his eyes.

He let go.

He let go of the fear.

He let go of the pain.

He let go of the self.

He let go of the end.

He became the threshold.

He became the door.

He became the path.

He became the way.

He was the crossing.

He was the passage.

He was the transition.

He was the change.

He was the transformation.

He was the release.

He was the peace.

He was the rest.

He was the home.

He was the end.

He was the beginning.

He was the all.

He was the one.

He was the nothing.

He was the everything.

He was the truth.

He was the justice.

He was the mercy.

He was the grace.

He was the light.

He was the dark.

He was the silence.

He was the sound.

He was the rain.

He was the sun.

He was the dust.

He was the stone.

He was the wood.

He was the air.

He was the fire.

He was the water.

He was the earth.

He was the spirit.

He was the soul.

He was the heart.

He was the mind.

He was the body.

He was the name.

He was the memory.

He was the dream.

He was the waking.

He was the living.

He was the dying.

He was the being.

He was the becoming.

He was the having.

He was the doing.

He was the feeling.

He was the thinking.

He was the knowing.

He was the seeing.

He was the hearing.

He was the touching.

He was the tasting.

He was the smelling.

He was the sensing.

He was the perceiving.

He was the understanding.

He was the accepting.

He was the letting go.

He was the releasing.

He was the surrendering.

He was the yielding.

He was the bowing.

He was the falling.

He was the rising.

He was the standing.

He was the walking.

He was the running.

He was the flying.

He was the swimming.

He was the diving.

He was the sinking.

He was the floating.

He was the drifting.

He was the flowing.

He was the streaming.

He was the pouring.

He was the spilling.

He was the overflowing.

He was the bursting.

He was the breaking.

He was the shattering.

He was the cracking.

He was the splitting.

He was the tearing.

He was the ripping.

He was the cutting.

He was the slicing.

He was the piercing.

He was the stabbing.

He was the poking.

He was the prodding.

He was the pushing.

He was the pulling.

He was the dragging.

He was the hauling.

He was the lifting.

He was the carrying.

He was the bearing.

He was the holding.

He was the gripping.

He was the clutching.

He was the grasping.

He was the seizing.

He was the catching.

He was the grabbing.

He was the taking.

He was the giving.

He was the sharing.

He was the offering.

He was the presenting.

He was the showing.

He was the revealing.

He was the exposing.

He was the unveiling.

He was the disclosing.

He was the confessing.

He was the admitting.

He was the acknowledging.

He was the recognizing.

He was the identifying.

He was the naming.

He was the labeling.

He was the classifying.

He was the categorizing.

He was the ordering.

He was the arranging.

He was the organizing.

He was the structuring.

He was the building.

He was the constructing.

He was the creating.

He was the making.

He was the forming.

He was the shaping.

He was the molding.

He was the carving.

He was the chiseling.

He was the sculpting.

He was the painting.

He was the drawing.

He was the sketching.

He was the writing.

He was the writing.

He was the writing.