You are old.

The word sits in your mouth like a stone.

Cold.

Round.

You spit it out.

Not into a cup.

Into the sink.

The water runs.

Brown.

Then clear.

You look in the mirror.

The face is yours.

And it is not.

The eyes are deep.

The skin is paper.

You are Elias Thorne.

You are an architect.

Or you were.

Now you are a ghost.

Drifting through the city.

The city is a machine.

It grinds.

It hums.

It does not care.

You wear a coat.

It is gray.

It is old.

It smells of dust.

And rain.

You walk.

Your legs are stiff.

Your knees click.

A mechanical sound.

You ignore it.

You must ignore it.

If you listen, you will break.

You are a stranger here.

You have been here for forty years.

But you are a stranger.

You are an exile.

From who?

From what?

You do not know.

You only know the distance.

Between then and now.

It is a chasm.

You stand on the edge.

You look down.

You do not jump.

You walk.

The apartment is small.

A box.

A cage.

The light is dim.

Yellow.

Sickly.

You sit in the chair.

The leather creaks.

It is the only sound.

You hold a card.

A photograph.

It is faded.

The colors are gone.

Only the shapes remain.

A house.

A garden.

A boy.

The boy is you.

The boy is happy.

He is laughing.

You do not remember laughing.

You do not remember the garden.

You do not remember the house.

Only the boy.

He looks at you.

From the photo.

His eyes are bright.

Your eyes are dead.

You turn the card over.

There is a name.

Margaret.

It is your mother.

Or it is your sister.

You are not sure.

Memory is a thief.

It steals the facts.

It leaves the feelings.

You feel pain.

Deep.

Sharp.

Like a blade.

In the gut.

You close your eyes.

The pain remains.

You open them.

The room is the same.

The light is the same.

The card is the same.

You are the same.

And you are different.

Time is a river.

It flows.

It does not stop.

It does not wait.

You are a leaf.

On the current.

Swept away.

You have no roots.

No ground.

Only the flow.

Your phone rings.

The sound is harsh.

It cuts the silence.

You do not answer.

It rings again.

And again.

You let it stop.

The silence returns.

Heavier now.

Thicker.

You pick up the phone.

The screen is dark.

You tap it.

Light floods your face.

One call.

Unknown.

You stare at it.

The number blinks.

A heartbeat.

A threat.

You put the phone down.

You stand up.

Your legs tremble.

You walk to the window.

The city is outside.

A grid of lights.

A web of wires.

A nest of steel.

You look down.

The streets are empty.

At this hour.

Only the cars.

Moving.

Fast.

Blurring into streaks.

Red.

White.

Yellow.

Like blood.

Like bone.

Like light.

You lean against the glass.

It is cold.

It burns.

You close your eyes.

You hear a voice.

Low.

Soft.

Familiar.

"Elias."

You open your eyes.

The room is empty.

You blink.

The room is empty.

You are alone.

You are always alone.

The voice fades.

Like smoke.

Like wind.

Like a dream.

You tell yourself it was nothing.

A trick of the mind.

A glitch in the system.

You are a man of logic.

Of structure.

Of lines.

You do not believe in ghosts.

But the voice remains.

In the air.

In the walls.

In the bones of your body.

It whispers.

It calls.

It pulls.

You pick up the phone.

Your hand shakes.

The number is still there.

You press the button.

It rings.

One time.

Two times.

Three times.

It stops.

Silence.

Then a voice.

"Hello?"

It is a man.

Young.

His voice is smooth.

Polished.

Like glass.

"You have the wrong number," you say.

Your voice is rough.

Cracked.

Like dry wood.

"I have the right number," the man says.

His voice is calm.

Caring.

Convincing.

"Is this Elias Thorne?"

"Yes."

"My name is Julian.

I am a researcher.

I am working on a project.

About memory.

About identity."

"Identity," you repeat.

The word tastes strange.

Bitter.

"What do you want?"

"I want to talk.

To you.

About your past.

About your work."

"I have no work.

I have no past.

Only the present."

"Your work was significant, Elias.

You designed the Meridian Tower.

It is a landmark.

A symbol.

Of progress.

Of modernity."

The Meridian Tower.

The name hits you.

Like a punch.

In the stomach.

You remember.

The blueprints.

The lines.

The angles.

The steel.

The glass.

You remember the joy.

The pride.

The creation.

You built it.

With your hands.

With your mind.

You made it stand.

In the sky.

Touching the clouds.

And now it is there.

Still standing.

Still tall.

Still shining.

But you are gone.

You are fading.

"The tower is old," you say.

"It is still strong," Julian says.

"It is a monument.

To you."

"I am not a monument.

I am a man.

A dying man."

"Death is a transition.

Not an end.

You can share your story.

Before you go.

Before you fade."

"Fade," you whisper.

The word is true.

You are fading.

Every day.

Every hour.

Every minute.

You lose a piece.

A name.

A face.

A moment.

It is gone.

Forever.

"I will consider it," you say.

"Thank you, Elias.

I will call you tomorrow.

At noon."

The line clicks.

Dead.

Silence.

You put the phone down.

It is heavy.

A brick.

A weight.

You look at the card.

The boy in the photo.

He is waiting.

For you.

To come back.

You cannot go back.

Time is a one-way street.

You can only move forward.

Into the dark.

Into the void.

Into the end.

You walk to the Meridian Tower.

The city is awake.

The sun is up.

The light is bright.

Blinding.

You squint.

The streets are full.

People.

Thousands.

Millions.

Moving.

Talking.

Living.

You are invisible.

A ghost.

A shadow.

You walk through them.

They do not see you.

They do not care.

You are a speck.

In the crowd.

You reach the base.

The tower rises.

Into the sky.

It is beautiful.

It is terrible.

It is a needle.

Stitching the earth to the heaven.

You look up.

Your neck hurts.

Your eyes water.

The glass shines.

Reflecting the sun.

Blinding.

You turn away.

You look at the door.

Glass.

Steel.

Cold.

You push it open.

The air is cool.

Clean.

Smells of metal.

And power.

You walk in.

The lobby is empty.

Except for a guard.

He sits at a desk.

Reading a book.

He looks up.

His eyes are dark.

Deep.

"Can I help you?" he asks.

His voice is flat.

Bored.

"I am here to see the architect," you say.

The guard smiles.

It is a sad smile.

"Mr. Thorne is gone."

"I know."

"He passed away three years ago."

The words hit you.

Like a hammer.

In the chest.

You stagger.

You lean on the desk.

The guard looks at you.

Concerned.

"Are you alright, sir?"

"I am Elias," you say.

Your voice is a whisper.

A breath.

"The guard frowns.

"Mr. Thorne is dead."

"I know."

"Then who are you?"

"I am him."

"You are a ghost."

The guard laughs.

It is a dry sound.

Rustling.

"Go home, sir.

Take a taxi.

You look ill."

"I am ill," you say.

"I am dying."

"You are alive."

"I am fading."

The guard stands up.

He is young.

Strong.

Full of life.

He looks at you.

With pity.

With fear.

"Please leave."

You do not leave.

You stand.

You look at him.

You see your face.

In his eyes.

You see the boy.

In the photo.

You see the truth.

You are not Elias Thorne.

You are the memory.

Of Elias Thorne.

The echo.

The shadow.

The ghost.

He is gone.

You are here.

You are the one who remains.

The one who fades.

The one who is lost.

"I am not a ghost," you say.

Your voice is firm.

Strong.

"You are," the guard says.

"No.

I am the architect.

I am the work.

I am the tower."

The guard shakes his head.

"Mr. Thorne is in the ground.

Under the soil.

In the grave."

"The grave is empty," you say.

"The body is gone.

Only the spirit remains.

In the steel.

In the glass.

In the stone."

The guard looks at you.

He is afraid.

He picks up the phone.

"I will call security," he says.

"Call them," you say.

"Call them.

They will not help.

They will not see.

Only I see.

Only I am."

The guard dials.

His hand shakes.

Like yours.

Like everyone.

The phone rings.

No one answers.

The line is dead.

The power is out.

The lights flicker.

Die.

Darkness.

Total.

Absolute.

The guard screams.

A high sound.

Thin.

Tearing.

You do not scream.

You breathe.

You listen.

To the building.

It hums.

It sings.

It lives.

You are part of it.

You are the soul.

You are the heart.

You are the mind.

You are the ghost.

And you are free.

The darkness lifts.

The lights come on.

The guard is gone.

The lobby is empty.

You are alone.

You walk to the elevator.

The doors close.

You press the button.

Top floor.

The elevator rises.

Smooth.

Silent.

Fast.

You stand in the corner.

You look at the ceiling.

It moves.

Up.

Up.

Up.

You feel light.

Weightless.

Free.

The doors open.

The sky is there.

Blue.

Bright.

Infinite.

You step out.

The wind hits you.

Cold.

Clean.

Pure.

You look at the city.

It is small.

Tiny.

A toy.

A model.

You are above it.

Above it all.

You look down.

At the streets.

At the people.

They are ants.

Moving.

Dancing.

Dying.

You do not care.

You are not them.

You are the sky.

You are the air.

You are the light.

You are the ghost.

And you are happy.

For the first time.

You are free.

You are gone.

You are here.

You are everywhere.

You are nothing.

And you are everything.

You close your eyes.

The wind blows.

It carries you.

Away.

Up.

Up.

Up.

Into the void.

Into the light.

Into the end.

You smile.

It is the last smile.

The first smile.

The only smile.

You are gone.