The bees are dead.

You know this because you can smell the wax. Sweet, rotting, sticky. It coats the back of your throat. You are in the hive. Not a beehive. A place that looks like one. The walls are hexagonal cells. The air hums. It is a low, wet sound. Like a throat clearing.

You are here.

You are always here.

The walls pulse. They breathe in. They breathe out. The light is yellow. It comes from nowhere. It is inside the wax.

You touch a cell. It is warm.

Your hand sinks in.

The wax is soft. It gives way. It feels like skin.

You pull your hand out. It is covered in a thick, golden paste.

You look at it.

You do not wipe it off.

You are Margaret.

You are the Keeper.

You have been the Keeper for thirty years.

Or maybe it is three days.

Time is a fluid thing here. It pools in the corners. It drips from the ceiling. You do not watch the clock. There is no clock. There is only the cycle.

The bees come.

They are small. They are black. They move in lines. They do not buzz. They slide.

They approach you.

They do not fear you.

They know you.

You are one of them.

You are the queen.

But you are old.

Your joints ache. The wax is getting harder.

You know this is the end.

You have known for a long time.

The protocol is simple.

When the keeper dies, the hive dies.

When the hive dies, the truth is released.

You have kept the truth.

You have kept it inside the wax.

You have kept it inside your blood.

It is a heavy thing.

It is a curse.

To know is to suffer.

To know is to burn.

You chose this.

You chose to be the vessel.

Now the vessel is cracking.

A crack runs down the left wall.

It is thin.

It is white.

It looks like a bone.

You stare at it.

The bees stop.

They hover.

They watch you.

You feel their eyes.

They are cold.

They are patient.

You turn away.

You walk to the center of the room.

There is a table.

It is made of wood.

It is real.

It is the only real thing here.

On the table is a glass.

It is empty.

You pick it up.

It is cold.

You put it down.

You think of the outside world.

You think of the rain.

You think of the gray sky over London.

You think of the house on the hill.

You think of the garden.

You think of the roses.

They are red.

They are sharp.

They cut your hands.

You loved them.

You loved the pain.

You loved the sting.

It was the only pain that was clean.

The pain here is sticky.

The pain here is cloying.

It sticks to your soul.

It will not wash off.

You remember why you came here.

You remember the letter.

You remember the name.

Eleanor.

She was your sister.

She was your friend.

She was your love.

She was the cause.

She was the ideal.

You loved her with a fever.

You loved her with a madness.

She died.

She died young.

She died because of you.

You did not mean to do it.

You did not know.

You are a scientist.

You study memory.

You study how the brain stores the past.

You discovered something.

You discovered that memory can be extracted.

You discovered that memory can be shared.

You discovered that memory can be a weapon.

Eleanor had a disease.

Her brain was failing.

She was losing herself.

She was becoming a stranger.

She asked you for help.

She asked you to save her.

You said yes.

You tried to save her.

You took her memories.

You put them in a jar.

You put the jar in the hive.

You thought it would work.

You thought it would cure her.

It did not.

It killed her.

The memories were too heavy.

The brain could not hold them.

They burned her out.

She screamed.

She screamed until she stopped.

You ran.

You ran to the hive.

You locked the door.

You sealed the wax.

You hid the jar.

You hid the truth.

You have been hiding it ever since.

You are the keeper.

You are the prisoner.

You are the sinner.

The crack in the wall widens.

It splits.

A piece of wax falls.

It lands on the floor.

It shatters.

It is not solid.

It is liquid.

It is gold.

It spreads.

It reaches your feet.

You feel it on your skin.

It is warm.

It is alive.

It moves.

It climbs your leg.

It climbs your chest.

It enters your mouth.

You taste it.

It tastes like honey.

It tastes like blood.

It tastes like Eleanor.

You choke.

You gag.

You cough.

The bees swarm.

They cover you.

They sting you.

They do not sting you with needles.

They sting you with light.

They sting you with sound.

They sting you with memory.

You see her face.

You see her eyes.

They are wide.

They are full of fear.

They are full of love.

She is looking at you.

She is forgiving you.

She is letting you go.

The hive is breaking.

The walls are dissolving.

The light is fading.

The air is clearing.

You are falling.

You are falling into the dark.

You are falling into the silence.

You are falling into the end.

You do not fight it.

You do not resist.

You accept it.

You are tired.

You are so tired.

You have carried this weight for so long.

It is time to put it down.

It is time to let go.

The knowledge is a curse.

But the curse is broken.

The truth is out.

It is free.

You are free.

The pain is gone.

The heat is gone.

The smell is gone.

There is only the cold.

There is only the quiet.

There is only the peace.

You are Margaret.

You are not the Keeper.

You are just a woman.

You are just a sister.

You are just a fool.

You made a mistake.

You tried to play god.

You tried to cheat death.

You failed.

But you did not stop.

You carried the guilt.

You carried the love.

You carried the pain.

You did it for her.

You did it for the ideal.

You did it for the cause.

It was a waste.

It was a tragedy.

It was a lesson.

You learned nothing.

You learned everything.

The hive is gone.

The bees are gone.

The wax is gone.

You are here.

You are in a room.

It is a small room.

It is white.

It is empty.

There is a bed.

There is a chair.

There is a window.

The sun is rising.

The light is gray.

The air is cold.

You are lying in the bed.

You are wearing a hospital gown.

Your hands are thin.

Your fingers are stained yellow.

The stains are under your nails.

They are permanent.

You will never wash them out.

They are part of you now.

You are old.

Your hair is white.

Your face is lined.

You are alone.

You are not alone.

There is a person in the chair.

It is a woman.

She is young.

She is watching you.

She is not looking at you.

She is looking at the wall.

She is crying.

She is silent.

You know who she is.

She is your daughter.

Her name is Sarah.

She is here.

She is always here.

She has been here for years.

You did not see her.

You were inside the hive.

You were inside the wax.

You were inside the memory.

You missed her.

You missed her life.

You missed her pain.

You missed her joy.

You missed her.

She is your legacy.

She is your punishment.

She is your hope.

She is the future.

She is the one who will remember.

She is the one who will tell the story.

She is the one who will carry the truth.

The truth is heavy.

The truth is ugly.

The truth is sad.

But it is real.

It is the only thing that is real.

You look at her.

You do not speak.

You cannot speak.

Your voice is gone.

Your throat is dry.

Your lungs are weak.

You have nothing left.

You have given it all.

You have given your mind.

You have given your body.

You have given your time.

You have given your life.

It was not enough.

It was never enough.

But it was yours.

It was your sacrifice.

It was your atonement.

It was your love.

Sarah looks at you.

Her eyes are red.

Her face is wet.

She reaches out.

She takes your hand.

Her hand is warm.

Her hand is strong.

Your hand is cold.

Your hand is weak.

She holds it.

She does not let go.

She will not let go.

You close your eyes.

The light fades.

The room fades.

The pain fades.

The fear fades.

The guilt fades.

There is only the hand.

There is only the warmth.

There is only the love.

You are Margaret.

You are gone.

You are here.

You are free.

The bees are silent.

The hive is empty.

The wax is solid.

The truth is kept.

The story is told.

The end is near.

The end is now.

The end is you.

The end is me.

The end is us.

The end is the silence.

The end is the peace.

The end is the light.

The end is the dark.

The end is the life.

The end is the death.

The end is the memory.

The end is the forgetting.

The end is the remembering.

The end is the truth.

The end is the lie.

The end is the love.

The end is the hate.

The end is the hope.

The end is the despair.

The end is the beginning.

The end is the middle.

The end is the end.

You are free.

You are free.

You are free.

The sun rises.

The sun sets.

The sun rises.

The sun sets.

The cycle ends.

The cycle begins.

The story ends.

The story begins.

The story is you.

The story is me.

The story is us.

The story is the truth.

The story is the lie.

The story is the love.

The story is the hate.

The story is the hope.

The story is the despair.

The story is the beginning.

The story is the middle.

The story is the end.

You are free.

You are free.

You are free.