The letter was damp. I wiped it with my sleeve. The ink ran black. I am writing this from the cellar. The air is thick. It smells of rust. It smells of old blood. I am alone here. But I am not alone in my mind. I see her. I see the house.

I arrived in this city in 1892. It was cold. The wind cut my face. I had no money. I had no friends. I only had a name. Thomas Bradshaw. A name that belonged to a dead man. I took it to hide. To vanish. I walked the streets. I saw the factories. They smoked black. They roared day and night. The smoke stained the sky. It stained the snow. It stained us.

I found work at the mill. The foreman was kind. He gave me a room. It was small. The walls were thin. I could hear the neighbors. I could hear the machines. The machines never stopped. They beat like a heart. A sick heart. I slept poorly. I dreamed of fire. I dreamed of water. I dreamed of a door that would not open.

There was a girl. Her name was Clara. She lived in the house across the yard. She was small. She was quiet. She had eyes like glass. I watched her. I did not speak. I could not speak. I was a ghost. She was alive. She played by the fence. She sang. Her voice was thin. It cut the air. I felt a pull. It was strong. It was wrong. I turned away. I looked at the ground. My boots were muddy. My hands were dirty. I was not her. I was less.

The city was fair. It looked at me with hate. I was an outsider. I was strange. My face was pale. My clothes were rough. People spat when I passed. Children threw stones. I did not return the blows. I endured. I swallowed the pain. I swallowed the shame. I became stone. I became silence.

Clara disappeared. One day, she was there. The next day, she was gone. Her mother wept. She cried for days. The neighbors whispered. They said it was a fever. They said it was a fall. I knew it was not so. I knew the truth. I had seen the men. They came at night. They took her. I saw it. I did nothing. I stood by the wall. I held my breath. I was afraid. I was weak. I let them take her. I let them break her.

I could not stay. I left the mill. I left the city. I walked. I walked for days. I walked until my feet bled. I found a new place. It was far. It was quiet. I worked in the fields. The soil was dark. The sky was wide. I tried to forget. I tried to erase her face. But the face remained. It burned in my mind. It burned in my sleep. I could not escape.

Years passed. I grew old. My hair turned white. My back bent. I lived in a small house. I had no family. I had no friends. I had only the past. The past was a weight. It crushed me. I thought of Clara. I thought of her song. I thought of her eyes. I felt the guilt. It was a stone in my chest. It did not go away. It only grew heavier.

Then I heard the rumor. The mill was closed. The building was ruined. It stood in the woods. It was a ghost. People said it was haunted. They said they saw lights. They said they heard screams. I did not believe in ghosts. I believed in men. I believed in my sin. I decided to go back. I went back to the house. I stood in the yard. The grass was tall. The fence was broken. The house was dark.

I walked in. The door creaked. It opened slowly. The air was stale. It was cold. I walked to the cellar. I remembered the way. I remembered the steps. I went down. The dark was total. I felt the stairs. I felt the bottom. I lit a match. The flame was small. It flickered. It died. I struck another. It held. I looked around.

The room was empty. There was no furniture. There was no bed. There was only the floor. The floor was stone. It was cold. It was wet. I knelt down. I touched the stone. I felt a mark. It was a shape. It was a hand. A small hand. It was carved into the rock. It was deep. It was old. I touched it. I felt a shock. I fell back. I gasped. I saw her. She was there. She was not a ghost. She was a memory. A physical memory. She had been here. She had been trapped. She had screamed. No one heard. No one came. I was there. I heard. I did nothing.

I sat on the floor. I cried. The tears fell on the stone. They mixed with the dust. I was broken. I was ruined. I had lived a lie. I had built a life on a lie. I was a coward. I was a monster. I should have died with her. I should have stopped them. I had failed. I had failed the only thing that mattered.

I left the cellar. I left the house. I walked out into the night. The moon was high. It was full. It was bright. It lit the trees. It lit the road. I walked. I walked until I fell. I lay on the grass. I looked up. The stars were cold. They were distant. They did not care. They did not judge. They just were.

I returned to my house. I sat by the fire. The fire was low. It made shadows. The shadows moved. They looked like hands. They looked like faces. I stared at the fire. I stared until my eyes blurred. I saw the truth. It was not justice. Justice is a myth. Justice is a dream. We do not get what we deserve. We get what we can bear. We get what we make. I had made a monster of myself. I had made a ghost of my life.

I picked up the pen. I wrote this letter. I addressed it to no one. I sealed it. I put it in a box. I buried the box in the garden. I will not die with this secret. I will carry it. I will carry it until the end. I will carry it into the dark.

The machine still runs. It runs in my head. It grinds my bones. It grinds my soul. It does not stop. It will not stop. I am the fuel. I am the smoke. I am the ash. I am nothing. I am the silence after the scream. I am the empty room. I am the mark on the stone.

I am Thomas Bradshaw. I am alive. I am dead. I am waiting. I am waiting for the end. I am waiting for the rain. I am waiting for the forgetfulness. But the forgetfulness does not come. The memory remains. It is the only thing that is real. It is the only thing that is true. It is the only thing that I have.

The wind blows. It hits the window. It rattles the glass. I do not look out. I do not need to look. I know what is out there. I know what is in me. I know the weight. I know the cost. I paid it. I pay it every day. I pay it with my breath. I pay it with my blood. I pay it with my life.

It is enough. It is not enough. It is all I have. I am the distant machine. I am the distant sound. I am the distant light. I am the distant pain. I am here. I am nowhere. I am the echo. I am the ghost. I am the truth.

The letter is done. The ink is dry. The paper is soft. I fold it. I close the box. I lock it. I bury it. I walk away. I do not look back. I cannot look back. The past is a wall. It is a stone. It is a cage. I am inside. I am outside. I am both. I am neither. I am the silence. I am the scream. I am the end.

The sun rises. It is gray. It is cold. It does not warm me. I feel the cold. I feel the pain. I feel the weight. I accept it. I embrace it. I am part of it. I am the stone. I am the earth. I am the dust. I am the forgotten. I am the lost. I am the broken.

I walk. I walk on. The road is long. The road is hard. The road is mine. I walk alone. I walk in the dark. I walk in the light. I walk in the silence. I walk in the noise. I walk in the truth. I walk in the lie. I walk in the end.

The end is near. The end is now. The end is always. I am ready. I am not ready. I am here. I am gone. I am the mark. I am the stone. I am the silence.

I am Thomas. I am Bradshaw. I am the one who stayed. I am the one who left. I am the one who remembers. I am the one who forgets. I am the one who pays. I am the one who owes. I am the one who dies. I am the one who lives.

The machine stops. The silence comes. The dark comes. The end comes.

I am here.