You stand in the corridor. The floor is waxed to a mirror shine. It reflects your shoes. They are scuffed. They are old.

"Mr. Hale," the voice says. It comes from the office door. "Come in."

You do not move. Your hands are at your sides. Your fingers are stiff. You look at the floor. You look at the stain. A dark spot. Like a tear in the fabric.

"You are late," the voice says. "Again."

"I was in the yard," you say. Your voice is low. It is flat. "Checking the logs."

"Logs," the voice repeats. "We have a system. We have a schedule. You break it."

You step forward. The floor creaks. It is a small sound. But it is loud in the silence. You open the door. The office is small. There is a desk. There is a chair. There is a man.

He is older than you. He wears a suit. It is dark. It fits well. He has a mustache. It is grey. He looks at you. He does not smile.

"Sit," he says.

You sit. The chair is hard. It is wood. It is cold. You keep your back straight. You look at his hands. They are on the desk. They are clean. They are still.

"About the incident," he says. "The fire."

You nod. You know what he means. You know what he suspects. You do not speak. You wait.

"The crew says you were there," he says. "They say you saw it."

"I saw smoke," you say. "That is all."

"Smoke," he says. "From where?"

"The boiler room," you say. "It was late. I was checking the pressure valves."

"And then?"

"And then I left. I went to my quarters."

"Did you see anyone?"

"No."

"Did you hear anything?"

"Nothing."

He looks at you. His eyes are blue. They are cold. He leans back in his chair. He crosses his legs.

"We have a problem," he says. "A recurring problem. Sabotage. Or carelessness. It does not matter. The result is the same. We lose time. We lose money. We lose trust."

"I understand," you say.

"Do you?" he asks. "Or are you part of it?"

You look at your hands. They are in your lap. They are rough. They are dirty. You look at him.

"No," you say.

"Prove it."

"I cannot prove a negative."

"Then you are guilty by default. Until proven otherwise."

You feel a tightness in your chest. It is a knot. It pulls. You breathe in. You breathe out. The air is stale. It smells of paper. It smells of dust.

"I have been here for ten years," you say.

"Ten years," he says. "And you have made mistakes. Small ones. But they add up."

"I am not perfect."

"No," he says. "No one is. But you are different. You are quiet. You are alone. You do not fit in."

You say nothing. You look at the window. It is dark outside. The rain is falling. You can hear it. It is a soft sound. Like a whisper.

"My father," you say.

He looks up. He is surprised. He leans forward.

"Your father?" he asks.

"He was here," you say. "Before me. He was a stoker. He worked the boiler room."

"I know of him. Arthur Hale. A good man."

"He died," you say. "In the boiler room."

"I am sorry," he says. "I remember. It was an accident."

"Was it?" you ask. "Or was it sabotage?"

The room is silent. The rain hits the glass. It is a steady rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap.

He looks at you. His face is hard. He does not answer.

"You think it was sabotage," you say. "You think someone killed him. You think it was because he was a union man. You think it was because he spoke up."

"I think we need to move on," he says. "The past is the past."

"The past is not the past," you say. "It is now. It is in the walls. It is in the air."

"Mr. Hale," he says. His voice is sharp. "You are overstepping. You are a worker. You are not an investigator."

"I am a detective," you say. "Of my own life. Of my own family."

He laughs. It is a dry sound. It is not funny.

"You are delusional," he says. "You are paranoid. You are dangerous."

"I am not dangerous," you say. "I am tired. I am tired of being alone. I am tired of being afraid."

"Then leave," he says. "Get out of here. And do not come back."

You stand up. Your knees crack. You walk to the door. Your hand is on the handle.

"Wait," he says.

You turn around. You look at him.

"We have a proposition," he says. "A job. A special job. To clean up the mess. To find who did it. To end this."

You look at him. You look at his eyes. You see something in them. It is fear. It is small. It is hidden.

"Why me?" you ask.

"Because you have nothing to lose," he says. "Because you are already gone. And because you know the place. You know the machines. You know the people."

You look at the desk. You look at the papers. They are white. They are blank.

"I will do it," you say.

He nods. He opens a drawer. He takes out a file. It is thin. It is grey. He slides it across the desk.

"Start here," he says.

You take the file. It is heavy. It is cold. You walk out. You do not look back.

You are in the corridor. The floor is still wet. Your shoes are still scuffed. You walk to the stairwell. The door is heavy. It is iron. You push it open.

The stairs are narrow. They are dark. You go down. You count the steps. One. Two. Three. Four.

You stop. You lean against the wall. The wall is cold. It is damp. You look at your hand. You hold the file. You open it.

There is a photo inside. It is old. It is yellow. It shows a man. He is standing by a boiler. He is smiling. He is holding a wrench.

It is your father.

You look at the photo. You look at your hand. Your hand is shaking. You put the photo in your pocket.

You go down the stairs. You reach the bottom. The door is open. The yard is dark. The rain is still falling.

You walk to the boiler room. The door is locked. You have a key. You take it from your pocket. It is cold. You put it in the lock.

You turn it. It clicks. You push the door open.

The room is hot. The air is thick. It smells of oil. It smells of metal. You walk in. You look around.

The boiler is there. It is large. It is black. It is silent.

You look at the floor. You see the stain. It is the same stain. The one in the office. The one on the waxed floor.

You realize. It is not a stain. It is blood.

It is old. It is dry. It is brown.

You look at the boiler. You see a mark. It is a scratch. It is deep. It is fresh.

You touch it. Your finger is wet. It is red.

You step back. You look at the door. You look at the stairs.

You are alone.

You hear a sound. It is a click. It is small. It is close.

You turn around.

You see the man. He is in the corner. He is in the shadows. He is holding a gun.

It is small. It is black. It is aimed at you.

You do not move. You do not speak. You look at him.

He is young. He is thin. He is pale. He is shaking.

It is not a stranger. You know him. You have seen him. He is one of the crew. He is new. He is quiet.

You know his name. You have seen it on the roster.

You look at him. You do not feel fear. You feel sadness.

"You did it," you say. Your voice is low. It is calm. "You did it to him."

He does not answer. He looks at you. His eyes are wide. They are wet.

"He was a good man," you say. "He loved you. He wanted to help you."

The man lowers the gun. His hand is trembling. The gun points at the floor.

"I didn't mean to," he says. His voice is a whisper. It is broken. "I didn't mean to."

You step forward. You take a step. Then another. You stop. You are close. You can smell him. He smells of sweat. He smells of fear.

"Give it to me," you say.

He looks at you. He looks at the gun. He looks at you again.

He drops it. It hits the floor. It makes a small sound. It rolls. It stops.

You walk to it. You pick it up. It is heavy. It is cold.

You look at the man. He is on his knees. He is crying. He is silent.

You look at the gun. You look at the man. You look at the boiler.

You understand. You understand everything.

You put the gun in your pocket. You turn away. You walk to the door.

"Go," you say. "Go home. Do not come back."

He does not move. He is still on his knees. He is shaking.

You walk out. You close the door. The lock clicks. It is final.

You are in the yard. The rain is falling. You stand in it. You do not move. You feel the water. It is cold. It is clean.

You look up. The sky is dark. There are no stars. There are no lights. There is only the rain.

You breathe in. The air is wet. The air is fresh.

You breathe out. The mist from your mouth disappears.

You are free. You are alone. You are done.

You walk to the gate. You open it. It creaks. It is a small sound. It is like a sigh.

You step out. You walk into the night. You do not look back. You do not turn around.

You are gone. You are free. You are you.