The ink is gone.

You look at the page. It is white. It is clean. It is empty.

You hold it up to the light. There are no words. There is no record. There is no history.

You are in the office. The light is gray. The dust motes dance in the shafts. They are slow. They are dead.

You are a clerk. You are small. You are invisible. Your name is Thomas. You are not important.

The desk is heavy. It is oak. It is dark. It smells of varnish and old fear.

You work here. You have always worked here. The building stands. The city sleeps. The world turns.

It is not a war. It is not a battle. It is a silence.

Your wife is Eleanor. She is not here. She is never here. She is in the house. She is in the bed. She is in the past.

You loved her. You loved her too much. It was a fire. It consumed the house. It consumed you.

Now the fire is out. The ash remains.

You look at the paper again. You wait for the words to return. They do not come.

You are the keeper of the chronicle. You are the man who holds the truth. Or so you thought.

The door opens.

A man enters. He is tall. He is thin. He wears a gray coat. His face is pale. His eyes are cold.

It is Mr. Halloway.

He is your superior. He is the master. He is the authority.

He stops before you. He looks at the paper. He looks at you.

"Is it ready?" he asks.

His voice is soft. It is like dry leaves.

You do not answer. You cannot answer. Your throat is tight.

Halloway steps closer. He reaches for the paper. He takes it. He holds it up.

"It is blank," he says.

It is not a question. It is a fact.

You nod. You try to nod. Your head is heavy.

"Where are the words?" he asks.

You shake your head.

"They are gone," you say.

Your voice is a whisper. It is thin. It is broken.

Halloway puts the paper down. He looks at you. He does not look angry. He looks disappointed.

"Did you lose them?" he asks.

No. You did not lose them. You did not drop them. You did not burn them.

They faded. They dissolved. They were never there.

"Did you erase them?" he asks.

You look at him. You want to say no. You want to say the truth. But the truth is heavy. It is a stone in your mouth.

You nod again.

He sighs. It is a long sigh. It fills the room.

"This is a failure," he says.

It is not a shout. It is a judgment.

You stand up. Your chair scrapes against the floor. The sound is sharp. It is loud.

"I am sorry," you say.

You bow your head. You are small. You are guilty. You feel the weight of it. You feel the shame.

Halloway walks to the window. He looks out. The city is gray. The sky is gray. The world is gray.

"We need the chronicle," he says. "We need the record. We need to know what happened."

You know what happened. You remember. You remember the noise. You remember the blood. You remember the screams.

But you cannot speak it. The words are gone. The ink is gone. The truth is gone.

"Can you write it again?" Halloway asks.

He turns to you. His eyes are sharp.

You look at the pen. It is dry. It is black. It is dead.

You pick it up. You hold it. It is light. It is useless.

You try to write. You press the tip to the paper. Nothing happens. No mark. No trace. No line.

You push harder. The paper tears. A small tear. A small wound.

You drop the pen. It clatters on the desk.

"I cannot," you say.

Halloway watches you. He watches you struggle. He watches you fail.

He does not help. He does not stop you. He only watches.

This is the first turn. This is the betrayal.

He is not trying to help you. He is trying to break you. He is trying to make you feel the weight of your own silence.

You look at him. You see his face. You see the coldness. You see the power.

You realize something. You realize the truth.

He knows. He knows the words are gone. He knew them before you did. He let them go. He let the ink fade.

He wanted this. He wanted the blank page. He wanted the silence.

You are not the keeper. You are the sacrifice.

You feel a coldness in your chest. It spreads. It reaches your hands. It reaches your feet.

You look at the paper. You look at the tear.

You think of Eleanor. You think of her face. You think of her voice.

She is gone. She is gone for good.

You loved her. It was destructive. It was a cancer. It ate you alive.

Now you are empty. Now you are clean.

Halloway walks back to you. He picks up the paper. He folds it. He puts it in his pocket.

"Go home," he says.

His voice is flat. It is final.

You do not move. You are frozen.

"Go home, Thomas," he repeats.

You look at him. You want to scream. You want to fight. You want to tear the words from his mind.

But you are tired. You are so tired.

You turn around. You walk to the door. You open it. The air is cold. It bites your face.

You step out.

You walk down the hall. The floor is cold. The walls are white. The light is dim.

You walk to the elevator. You press the button. You wait.

The doors open. You step in. The doors close.

You go down. You go down to the street.

The street is wet. The rain has started. It is fine. It is mist.

You walk. You do not know where you are going. You walk until your feet hurt.

You reach the bridge. You stop. You look at the water.

The water is dark. It is moving. It is fast.

You think of the chronicle. You think of the blank page.

You think of the words that were there. The words that recorded the war. The words that recorded the violence.

They are gone.

You look at your hands. They are shaking.

You realize you are free. You are free from the record. You are free from the truth.

You are free from the weight of it.

You close your eyes. You feel the rain on your face. You feel the cold in your bones.

You are alone. You are empty.

You are clean.

The story ends here. The ink is gone. The page is white.

You stand on the bridge. You do not jump. You do not go home.

You just stand. You just wait.

The city moves around you. The cars pass. The people pass.

You are a ghost. You are a shadow.

You are the man who lost the words.

You are the man who lost his wife.

You are the man who lost himself.

And it does not matter. It does not matter because the ink is gone. It does not matter because the page is blank.

It does not matter because you are free.

You open your eyes. You look at the water.

The water is still moving.

You turn around. You walk away.

You walk into the mist. You walk into the dark.

You disappear.

The chronicle is empty. The history is lost.

And you are gone.