The rain did not fall. It fell inward.

Elias stood in the center of the room. The floorboards groaned. They were old wood. Oak. Dark. Wet. He wore his uniform. The fabric was heavy. It clung to him. Damp. Cold. The collar choked his throat.

He looked at the door.

The door was solid. Mahogany. Carved with vines. The vines were twisting. They moved. Slowly. Like snakes. Like roots seeking water. They reached for the handle. They grasped it. They pulled.

Elias did not move.

He knew the rules. He had memorized them. He had written them in his notebook. The notebook was in his pocket. The leather was soft. Worn. Smooth. He had touched it a thousand times. He had rubbed the corners flat. He had erased the words with his thumb. The words were gone. The leather remained.

The door shuddered.

A knock.

Soft.

Rhythmic.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Elias closed his eyes.

He waited.

The wood split.

A hand appeared.

It was pale.

The fingers were long.

They wrapped around the grain.

The door opened.

It opened without sound.

The hallway beyond was dark.

But not empty.

There was a figure.

Tall.

Straight.

Wearing a gray coat.

The coat was wet.

It dripped.

Black water.

The figure stepped inside.

It did not walk.

It glided.

Elias watched.

His heart beat.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

The figure stopped.

It faced him.

Elias saw the face.

It was his father’s face.

No.

It was not his father’s face.

It was his own face.

Older.

Broken.

The eyes were hollow.

The mouth was a line.

The figure raised a hand.

It pointed at Elias.

The finger was wet.

It dripped.

Elias felt a cold drop hit his cheek.

He flinched.

The figure spoke.

The voice was wind.

The voice was static.

*“You are late.”*

Elias did not answer.

He could not.

His throat was tight.

The notebook in his pocket burned.

He reached for it.

He pulled it out.

The leather was black now.

Stained.

Smeared.

He opened it.

The pages were blank.

No.

They were not blank.

They were wet.

The ink was running.

The words were dissolving.

*“I am not free.”*

The words faded.

*“I am not free.”*

The words vanished.

The figure stepped closer.

The floorboards cracked.

More rain.

It poured from the ceiling.

It poured from the walls.

It poured from the figure’s mouth.

Elias coughed.

Water filled his lungs.

He gasped.

The figure was there.

Close.

Too close.

The face was inches away.

The eyes were black pools.

The voice was inside his head.

*“You left.”*

Elias remembered.

He remembered the house.

The garden.

The roses.

His mother’s hands.

They were soil-stained.

She was planting.

She was singing.

A lullaby.

Old.

Soft.

He had run.

He had run because the rain was coming.

He had run because the door was calling.

He had run because he wanted to be a man.

He had run because he wanted to be free.

He had left her.

He had left the garden.

He had left the song.

The figure leaned in.

It whispered.

*“You are the rain.”*

Elias shook his head.

No.

He was the soldier.

He was the hunter.

He was the one who caught the ghosts.

He had caught them all.

He had put them in boxes.

He had locked the boxes.

He had buried the boxes.

He was safe.

He was clean.

The figure smiled.

The smile was wide.

Too wide.

The teeth were wet.

*“Look.”*

Elias looked.

The room was changing.

The walls were peeling.

The plaster was falling.

Beneath the plaster was brick.

Red brick.

Old brick.

The bricks were moving.

They shifted.

They rearranged.

They formed a picture.

A small house.

A garden.

A woman.

Kneeling.

Digging.

Her back was to him.

Her hair was loose.

It was gray.

It was wet.

She was singing.

The sound was faint.

A thread.

A spider’s web.

Elias reached out.

His hand passed through the brick.

He touched the woman.

Her skin was cold.

She turned.

Her face was his mother’s face.

But older.

Older than the figure.

Older than time.

Her eyes were kind.

Her eyes were sad.

She held a trowel.

The trowel was rusted.

She held a seed.

The seed was black.

She looked at Elias.

She did not speak.

She nodded.

She planted the seed.

The earth swallowed it.

The rain stopped.

The room was dry.

The figure was gone.

Elias stood alone.

The notebook was in his hand.

He opened it.

The pages were dry.

The words were back.

But they were different.

They were not his words.

They were hers.

*“Come home.”*

The words were simple.

They were clear.

They were true.

Elias looked at the door.

The door was closed.

The vines were gone.

The handle was smooth.

He walked to the door.

His steps were heavy.

He turned the handle.

It was stiff.

It resisted.

He pushed.

The door opened.

The hallway was bright.

Sunlight.

White.

Blinding.

It hurt.

He blinked.

The light faded.

The hallway was gray.

Quiet.

Empty.

He stepped out.

The air was cool.

It smelled of dust.

It smelled of old paper.

It smelled of rain.

He walked.

He did not know where.

He did not know why.

He only walked.

The floors were creaking.

The walls were whispering.

He heard his name.

*“Elias.”*

He stopped.

He turned.

No one was there.

He walked on.

The city was outside.

The city was loud.

The city was hard.

The city was steel and stone.

It was industrial.

It was modern.

It was free.

He had chosen it.

He had chosen the noise.

He had chosen the distance.

He had chosen the freedom.

He stood on the street.

The cars moved.

Fast.

Blurred.

The people moved.

Fast.

Blurred.

He was still.

He was a statue.

He was a ghost.

He looked at his hands.

They were shaking.

He looked at the notebook.

The leather was warm.

He held it tight.

He felt the weight.

He felt the burden.

He felt the loss.

He had won.

He had escaped.

He was free.

Was he?

The rain started.

Light.

Soft.

It touched his face.

It touched his hands.

It touched the notebook.

The ink ran.

The words faded.

*“Come home.”*

The words disappeared.

The leather was blank.

The leather was empty.

Elias closed his eyes.

He breathed.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

The rain washed him.

The rain cleaned him.

The rain erased him.

He was gone.

He was nothing.

He was the rain.

He was the silence.

He was the space between the words.

He was the threshold.

He stood there.

Alone.

Free.

Defeated.

The city roared.

The rain fell.

He did not move.

He did not breathe.

He was still.

He was there.

He was nowhere.

The end.