The coat hung in the dark.

It was a heavy thing. Wool. Black. It smelled of smoke and old dust. Elias stood before it. He did not move. His breath fogged in the air. The workshop was cold. The fire had died.

He was a tailor. He had been a tailor for forty years. His hands were stiff. His back ached. He looked at the coat. It was his coat. The one he wore every day. The one that kept him warm. The one that marked him as a man of trade.

He reached for it.

His fingers touched the fabric. It was rough. It was familiar. He had patched the elbow twice. He had darned the sleeve once. He knew every thread. He knew every tear.

He pulled it off the hook.

The metal clinked. A small sound. It echoed in the room.

Elias put the coat on. He buttoned it. The buttons were worn smooth. They fit his fingers perfectly. He looked in the mirror. The glass was grimy. His face was a blur. He looked old. He looked tired.

He was not ready to leave.

He was afraid.

The train was coming. The whistle blew outside. A long, low sound. It cut through the night. It vibrated in the floorboards.

Elias closed his eyes.

He remembered her.

Clara.

She was gone now. Ten years. The grave was overgrown. The weeds were tall. He had not visited in three years. He did not want to see the dirt. He did not want to see the stone.

But he remembered her hands.

She was a baker. Her hands were strong. They were soft. They were warm. She would bake bread in the morning. The smell would fill the house. The smell of yeast and heat. It was the smell of life. It was the smell of home.

She used to wear a blue dress. It was simple. It was clean. It fit her well. She did not care about fashion. She cared about the work. She cared about the family.

Elias had loved her.

He loved her with a force. It was not gentle. It was not soft. It was a storm. It was a fire. It consumed him. He did not think. He did not reason. He just felt. He wanted her. He needed her. He could not live without her.

But he was a tailor.

He was busy. He had clients. He had deadlines. He had money to make. He forgot the small things. He forgot the big things. He forgot her.

He thought he could control time. He thought he could master the hours. He thought he could beat the clock.

He was wrong.

Time is a thief. It steals your youth. It steals your strength. It steals your love. It takes everything. It leaves nothing.

Elias opened his eyes.

He was still holding the coat.

He looked at it again.

It was not just a coat.

It was a skin.

It was his identity.

It was his protection.

It was his prison.

He felt a pain in his chest. It was sharp. It was sudden. It was like a blade.

He gasped.

He dropped the coat.

It fell to the floor. A heap of black wool. A pile of darkness.

Elias sat down.

He slumped in the chair. The wood creaked. His legs trembled. He could not stand. He could not move. He was trapped.

He was old.

He was alone.

He was empty.

The train whistle blew again. Closer now. The lights flickered. The shadows danced.

Elias looked at the door.

He had to go.

He had to leave.

He stood up.

His knees buckled. He gripped the table. The wood bit into his palms. He forced himself to stand.

He walked to the door.

His steps were slow. They were heavy. They were final.

He opened the door.

The cold hit him.

It was a shock. It was a bite. It was a kiss.

The night was black. The stars were out. They were cold. They were distant.

He stepped out.

The street was empty. The cobblestones were wet. The fog rolled in. It wrapped around him. It swallowed him.

He walked.

He did not look back.

He walked to the station.

The platform was empty. The train was there. The steam hissed. The metal gleamed. It was a beast. It was ready to run.

Elias boarded.

He found a seat.

It was by the window. He sat down. The chair was hard. It was cold.

He looked out.

The station was fading. The lights were blurring. The people were disappearing.

He was leaving.

He was going away.

He was going to be alone.

He closed his eyes.

He thought of Clara.

He thought of the blue dress.

He thought of the bread.

He thought of the love.

It was too late.

It was always too late.

The train started to move.

A slow lurch. A gentle push. It gathered speed. It grew fast.

The world blurred.

The lights streaked.

The dark rushed by.

Elias felt the wind.

It was a ghost. It was a whisper. It was a song.

He felt free.

He felt light.

He felt alive.

But it was a false light. It was a brief moment. It was a lie.

The pain returned.

It was in his chest. It was in his hands. It was in his soul.

He was dying.

He was dying in his sleep.

He was dying in his dreams.

He was dying in his heart.

The train screamed.

It tore through the night. It cut through the dark. It raced through the void.

Elias looked at his hands.

They were trembling. They were pale. They were dead.

He looked at the window.

His reflection was there.

It was a stranger.

It was an old man.

It was a ghost.

He did not know who he was.

He did not know who he had been.

He did not know who he would be.

He was no one.

He was everything.

He was nothing.

The train kept moving.

It did not stop. It did not rest. It did not care.

Elias closed his eyes.

The dark took him.

The cold took him.

The silence took him.

He was gone.

He was free.

He was lost.

The train rode on.

The night was endless.

The stars were cold.

The fog was thick.

The wind was howling.

The world was turning.

The world was moving.

The world was forgetting.

Elias was forgotten.

Clara was forgotten.

The coat was forgotten.

The love was forgotten.

The time was gone.

The life was gone.

The end was here.

The end was now.

The end was always.

He was still.

He was quiet.

He was alone.

He was free.

He was dead.

The train screamed into the dark.

The dark swallowed it.

The dark swallowed everything.

Nothing was left.

Nothing was seen.

Nothing was heard.

Nothing was known.

Nothing was real.

Nothing was true.

Nothing was certain.

Nothing was sure.

Nothing was safe.

Nothing was warm.

Nothing was home.

Nothing was love.

Nothing was life.

Nothing was Elias.

Nothing was Clara.

Nothing was the coat.

Nothing was the bread.

Nothing was the dress.

Nothing was the memory.

Nothing was the past.

Nothing was the present.

Nothing was the future.

Nothing was time.

Nothing was age.

Nothing was death.

Nothing was life.

Nothing was anything.

Nothing was nothing.

The end.