The dream began with a smell. Rot. Sweet, cloying decay. I woke before I could find the source. My breath hung in the air, thick as wool. The window was shut. The glass was dirty. Outside, the mill roared. It always roared. It was the heartbeat of our town. A mechanical lung.

I am eleven years old. My name is Arthur. I am a boy. I am alone. I am not alone. I am watched.

The room is small. The walls are papered with a pattern of vines. They look like snakes. They coil and twist. They are dead things. They do not grow. They are trapped. I look at them. I see my face in the mirror. The face is pale. The eyes are wide. The eyes are wrong.

I must go to work. The bell rings. It is a shriek. It cuts the air. I pull on my shirt. It is gray. The fabric is rough. It scratches my skin. I pull on my boots. They are too big. They are my father’s boots. He is gone. He is under the earth. He is part of the root system now.

I walk to the factory. The street is mud. The mud is black. It sticks to my shoes. It is heavy. I drag my feet. The people on the street do not look at me. They look through me. I am invisible. I am a ghost. I am a mistake.

My mother stands by the door. She is thin. Her arms are sticks. She holds a loaf of bread. It is hard. It is dry.

“Eat,” she says.

I do not eat. I cannot. My throat is a knot. I cannot swallow.

“Arthur,” she says. Her voice is low. It is the voice of the wind in the chimney. “You are sick.”

I am not sick. I am awake. That is all. I am awake in the wrong place.

“I must go,” I say.

She does not stop me. She never stops me. She only watches. She watches with her eyes. They are dark. They are deep. They see things I do not want to see. She is the witness. She sees the truth. I am the fool.

I walk to the mill. The iron gates are open. The men are there. They are large. They are red-faced. They smell of beer and sweat. They do not speak to me. I am the new boy. I am the strange boy. I am the boy who hears the machines.

The foreman is Mr. Halloway. He is tall. He wears a black coat. His face is a mask. It is smooth. It has no expression. He holds a ledger. He holds a pen. He writes. He always writes.

“Arthur,” he says.

I stop. I stand still. The men around me are still. The air is still.

“You are late,” he says.

I am not late. The bell rang. I came.

“Inside,” he says. He points. His finger is a spear. It aims at the dark door.

I go inside. The floor is metal. It is cold. It vibrates. The vibration goes up my legs. It goes into my bones. It shakes my teeth.

The room is full of machines. They are large. They are black. They are oil-slick. They move. They do not stop. They grind. They tear. They scream. I hear them. I hear the voices inside the metal.

“Sit,” Halloway says.

I sit on a stool. The stool is iron. It is hard. It hurts my bottom.

“Why did you come out here?” he asks.

I do not know. I do not remember. I only remember the smell. The rot. The sweet decay.

“I smelled it,” I say.

He looks at me. His eyes are cold. They are ice.

“Smelled what?”

“The flowers,” I say.

He laughs. It is a dry sound. Like bones breaking.

“There are no flowers here, Arthur. There is only iron. There is only coal. There is only work. Do you understand?”

I do not understand. I want to understand. I want to see the flowers. I want to hold them. I want to keep them.

I close my eyes. I breathe in. The air is thick. It is gray. It is heavy. I breathe in the dust. I breathe in the oil. I breathe in the fear.

I see them.

They are blue. They are small. They grow in the cracks of the metal floor. They grow between the gears. They grow in the shadows. They are alive. They are moving. They are dancing.

I reach out. My hand shakes. I touch one. It is soft. It is cool. It is real. I pick it up. I hold it in my palm. It is a flower. It is blue. It is perfect.

I open my eyes.

Halloway is standing over me. His face is close. His breath is hot. It smells of meat.

“Give it to me,” he says.

I look at my hand. I am empty. There is no flower. There is only dust. There is only dirt.

“I had it,” I say.

He grabs my arm. His grip is tight. It hurts. He pulls me up. I am on my feet. I am trembling.

“You are mad,” he says. “You are broken. You are a danger to this place.”

“I am not mad,” I say. “You are blind.”

He hits me. He hits me in the face. It is a blow. It is hard. My head snaps back. I taste blood. It is copper. It is sharp.

“Take him to the boiler room,” he says to the men.

They drag me. My feet do not touch the ground. I am a sack. I am a thing. I am nothing.

They throw me in the boiler room. It is dark. It is hot. The heat is a wall. It presses against me. It squeezes me. I cannot breathe.

I lie on the floor. The floor is wet. It is oily. I lie in the oil. I lie in the dark.

I wait.

The heat rises. It climbs. It is a beast. It has claws. It has teeth. It eats the air. It eats the light. It eats me.

I am dying. I am burning. My skin is tight. My eyes are burning. My lungs are filling with smoke.

I am afraid. I am so afraid.

But I am not alone.

I hear it. It is a hum. It is low. It is deep. It is coming from the walls. It is coming from the pipes. It is coming from the earth.

It is the sound of the machines. But it is different. It is not a scream. It is a song. It is a lullaby.

I listen. I close my eyes. I let the sound in.

The heat is still there. It is still burning. But the sound covers it. The sound wraps around me. It is a blanket. It is a shield.

I see the flowers again. They are everywhere. They are on the walls. They are on the pipes. They are on my face. They are blue. They are bright. They are alive.

They are not flowers. They are sparks. They are embers. They are the fire itself.

I understand now.

The fire is not killing me. The fire is changing me.

I am not a boy. I am not a man. I am a thing. I am part of the machine. I am part of the process.

The fire consumes the boy. The fire leaves the spark.

I am the spark.

I am the seed.

I am the root.

The door opens. Light floods in. It is white. It is blinding.

Halloway is there. He is alone. He is looking at me. He is not afraid. He is curious.

He is holding a trowel. He is holding a bag of seeds.

“Look,” he says.

He points at the corner of the room. The floor is cracked. In the crack, there is a sprout. It is green. It is small. It is alive.

“It grew,” he says.

I look at it. I do not feel joy. I do not feel wonder. I feel nothing. I feel empty.

I am not the boy who loved the flowers. I am the boy who became the fire.

I am the curse.

I am the knowledge.

I know what I am. I know what I will be.

I will be the rot. I will be the sweet decay.

I will be the smell that wakes the dead.

I stand up. My legs are strong. My body is light. I am not heavy. I am air.

Halloway steps back. He looks at me. His face is pale. His eyes are wide.

He sees me. He sees the truth.

He is the witness. He sees the transformation.

He does not scream. He does not run. He only watches.

He is my mother. He is the wind. He is the silence.

I walk to him. I walk past him. I do not touch him. I do not look at him.

I walk to the door. I walk into the light.

The mill roars. The bell rings.

I am gone.

I am here.

I am the distant temple. I am the quiet place. I am the end of the story.

The flowers are blue. The flowers are dead. The flowers are alive.

I hold them. I keep them. I am them.

The end is the beginning. The beginning is the end.

I am the seed in the dark. I am the spark in the fire.

I am the curse.

I am the gift.

I am the truth.

The truth is cold. The truth is hard. The truth is alone.

I am alone.

I am not alone.

I am watched.

I am seen.

I am known.

I am the boy. I am the fire. I am the flower.

I am the end.

The light is bright. The light is white. The light is nothing.

I am in the light.

I am in the dark.

I am in between.

I am the space.

I am the silence.

I am the breath.

I am the pause.

I am the gap.

I am the crack.

I am the seed.

I am the root.

I am the vine.

I am the snake.

I am the coil.

I am the twist.

I am the knot.

I am the lock.

I am the key.

I am the door.

I am the wall.

I am the room.

I am the house.

I am the town.

I am the world.

I am the end.

The end is here.

The end is now.

The end is me.

I am the end.

I am the beginning.

I am the story.

I am the silence.

I am the sound.

I am the voice.

I am the word.

I am the letter.

I am the mark.

I am the stain.

I am the spot.

I am the dot.

I am the point.

I am the place.

I am the space.

I am the void.

I am the full.

I am the empty.

I am the full.

I am the nothing.

I am the something.

I am the all.

I am the one.

I am the many.

I am the self.

I am the other.

I am the stranger.

I am the friend.

I am the enemy.

I am the lover.

I am the hater.

I am the watcher.

I am the watched.

I am the witness.

I am the crime.

I am the punishment.

I am the sin.

I am the grace.

I am the hell.

I am the heaven.

I am the earth.

I am the air.

I am the fire.

I am the water.

I am the stone.

I am the metal.

I am the wood.

I am the leaf.

I am the root.

I am the stem.

I am the bud.

I am the bloom.

I am the seed.

I am the dust.

I am the ash.

I am the smoke.

I am the wind.

I am the storm.

I am the rain.

I am the snow.

I am the ice.

I am the frost.

I am the cold.

I am the heat.

I am the light.

I am the dark.

I am the shadow.

I am the mirror.

I am the glass.

I am the window.

I am the door.

I am the wall.

I am the floor.

I am the ceiling.

I am the roof.

I am the sky.

I am the stars.

I am the moon.

I am the sun.

I am the time.

I am the space.

I am the void.

I am the all.

I am the nothing.

I am the something.

I am the end.

The end is here.

The end is now.

The end is me.

I am the end.