You wake to the smell of iron and dust. The air is thick. It tastes of rust. You are in the cellar. The stone walls weep. A single bulb hums. It is weak. It flickers.

Your name is Arthur. You work here. You have always worked here. The Mill. It is old. The gears are huge. They grind the grain into flour. They grind the flesh into powder. You do not mind. You are a small man. You are invisible.

You wear a grey coat. It is stained. The stains are old. They are dark. They look like bruises. You touch them. You do not wash them. You keep them. They are your map.

There is a box on the table. It is gold. It is small. It is heavy. You hold it. Your hands shake. The gold is warm. It is alive. It pulses.

You do not know where it came from. You do not remember picking it up. It was there. It was always there. Or so you think.

The door opens. Light spills in. It is white. It is sharp.

Margaret stands there. She wears blue. Her hair is grey. Her eyes are kind. She looks at you. She looks at the box.

You hide the box. You put it in your pocket. It burns against your leg.

"Arthur," she says. Her voice is low. It is soft. It cuts the air.

"Margaret," you say. Your voice is dry. It is a whisper.

She steps inside. The light follows her. The shadows recede. They cling to the corners. They wait.

"Why are you down here?" she asks.

"I am working," you lie. You are not working. You are hiding. You are holding the gold.

She looks at the floor. She sees the dust. She sees the footprints. They are yours. They are deep.

"You have been here a long time," she says.

"Yes," you say.

She steps closer. She smells of lavender. It is old lavender. It is dried. It is dead.

"Arthur. Look at me."

You look at her. Her face is a mask. It is calm. It is empty.

"The box," she says.

Your heart stops. It does not beat. It is still.

"What box?" you ask.

Do not lie. You do not lie. You are too tired to lie.

You take the box out. The gold shines. It is bright. It is too bright. It hurts her eyes. She blinks.

"Where did you get this?" she asks.

"I do not know," you say.

"You do know," she says. "You always know."

You feel the weight of the gold. It is heavy. It is a chain. It is a rope.

"I found it," you say.

"No," she says. "You stole it."

The word hangs in the air. It is cold. It is ice.

You look at her. You do not understand. You are a good man. You are a quiet man. You do not steal.

"I would never," you say.

"You did," she says. "You did it for me."

You shake your head. Your hair is thin. It is white.

"For you?" you ask.

She nods. Her head is slow. It is heavy.

"You wanted to leave," she says. "You wanted to go away. You wanted to be free. So you took the gold. You thought it would buy your freedom."

You do not remember this. You remember the work. You remember the grind. You remember the dust. You do not remember wanting to leave.

"I wanted to stay," you say.

"No," she says. "You wanted to save me. You thought if you had the gold, you could save me from the Mill. You thought if you had the gold, you could save us both."

You look at the box. The gold pulses. It is fast. It is frantic.

"I am not saved," you say.

"No," she says. "You are not."

She reaches out. She touches your face. Her hand is cold. It is like stone.

"Arthur," she says. "The gold is not gold."

You look at the box. You open it.

It is empty.

There is no gold. There is no metal. There is only air. There is only dust.

You feel a shock. It goes through you. It is electric. It is pain.

"What is this?" you ask.

It is a mirror," she says.

You look inside. You see your face. It is old. It is tired. It is broken.

It is you.

You have always been you. There is no gold. There is no escape. There is only the mirror.

You close the box. The sound is sharp. It is a snap.

"Put it back," she says.

Where?" you ask.

"In the box," she says. "In the cellar. In the dark."

You look at her. You want to scream. You want to run. You want to break the glass. You want to break the world.

You do not move. You are still. You are empty.

"Margaret," you say.

"Yes?"

"Are you real?"

She smiles. It is small. It is sad.

"I am here," she says. "That is all that matters."

You hold the box. You hold the mirror. You hold your own face.

You walk up the stairs. The air is cold. It is thin.

The Mill is loud. The gears turn. The grain falls. The dust rises.

You are at your station. You are at the wheel. You turn it. You turn it. You turn it.

It does not stop.

You look at the box. It is in your hand. It is small. It is dark.

You put it in the bin. The bin is full. It is overflowing.

The gold is gone. The mirror is gone. You are gone.

You are Arthur. You are the wheel. You are the dust.

The day ends. The sun sets. It is red. It is bloody.

You go home. You are alone. The house is quiet. The walls are thin.

You sit in the chair. The chair is wooden. It is hard.

You think of Margaret. You think of the gold. You think of the mirror.

You realize you were wrong.

You were not trying to save her. You were trying to save yourself.

You were not trying to buy freedom. You were trying to buy denial.

You wanted the gold to be real. You wanted the escape to be real. You wanted the sacrifice to mean something.

But the gold was empty. The sacrifice was void.

You look at your hands. They are rough. They are cracked.

You are not a hero. You are not a villain. You are a man. You are a machine.

You stand up. You go to the window. The glass is cold.

You see the Mill. It is dark. The lights are out.

But the gears are still moving. You can feel it. It vibrates in the floor. It vibrates in your bones.

It never stops.

You open the window. The air comes in. It is cold. It is sharp.

You breathe. You breathe deep.

You feel the pain. It is in your chest. It is in your throat.

You do not cry. You do not shout.

You close the window. You lock it.

You go to the kitchen. You take a knife. It is small. It is sharp.

You look at it. You hold it.

You think of the gold. You think of the mirror.

You put the knife down.

You do not cut.

You sit on the floor. The floor is cold.

You wait.

The night is long. The night is dark.

You are alone.

You are free.

You are trapped.

The distinction is gone.

The gold is gone. The mirror is gone. You are gone.

Only the dust remains.

Only the grind remains.

You are Arthur. You are the dust. You are the grind.

You are the golden ritual.

You are the empty box.

You are the silent scream.

You are the stillness.

You are the end.

And the end is the same as the beginning.

The wheel turns.

The wheel turns.

The wheel turns.

You close your eyes.

You do not open them again.

The dust settles.

The silence grows.

The gold is gone.

The mirror is broken.

The man is gone.

The machine remains.