The mark is on your wrist.

You see it.

A thin, white line.

Like a scar from a burn that never happened.

You press your thumb against it.

It does not hurt.

It is cold.

It is always cold.

The room is dark.

The city hums outside.

It is a low, industrial groan.

Steam rises from the grates.

It fogs the glass.

You are alone.

You have been alone for days.

The fever came first.

It burned you from the inside.

Then the coughing.

Then the silence.

Now there is only the mark.

And the sound.

You hear it.

A ticking.

Not from a clock.

From the wall.

Or from your blood.

You look at the mark again.

It pulses.

Softly.

White light.

You try to wash it off.

Water runs red.

Then brown.

Then clear.

The mark remains.

It is growing.

It curls around your vein.

It looks like a vine.

A pale, dead vine.

You remember the doctor.

His face was grey.

He said you were fine.

He lied.

He always lies.

He is a servant to the sickness.

He feeds it.

You know this now.

Knowledge is a blade.

It cuts the hand that holds it.

But you hold it tight.

You must cut.

The city is a beast.

It eats the weak.

It spits out the strong.

You are strong.

You will not be eaten.

You go to the window.

The glass is cold.

You see your reflection.

Your eyes are hollow.

Your skin is translucent.

You can see the blue veins.

And the white line.

It is beautiful.

It is terrible.

You laugh.

It is a dry, cracking sound.

You are not afraid.

You are curious.

What is this?

Where did it come from?

The door opens.

It is your sister, Elise.

She looks old.

Her hair is grey.

She carries a tray.

There is soup on it.

There is a pill.

She smiles.

It is a gentle smile.

It is a lie.

"Drink," she says.

Her voice is soft.

Like wool.

"No," you say.

You do not move.

You look at the mark.

It flares.

Brighter.

Elise frowns.

She sets the tray down.

The soup spills.

It hits the floor.

Black liquid.

It spreads.

It looks like ink.

"What is that?" she asks.

She points to your wrist.

You hide your arm.

"Nothing," you say.

"Lies," she says.

She steps closer.

The air smells of copper.

And rot.

"I know what you have," she says.

Her eyes are wide.

They are wet.

"I know what we have."

You look at her.

She is trembling.

She reaches out.

Her hand is steady.

She takes your wrist.

She holds it to the light.

The mark shines.

It is a symbol.

You do not know what it is.

But you feel it.

It is a key.

It opens something.

"Let go," you whisper.

She does not.

She squeezes.

The pain is sharp.

It is clean.

It wakes you up.

The fog lifts.

The city noise fades.

There is only the mark.

And the truth.

The truth is a stone.

It sits in your stomach.

It is heavy.

The sickness is not a disease.

It is a gift.

The city gives it to you.

The smog.

The noise.

The fear.

It condenses.

It becomes the mark.

And the mark gives you sight.

You see the world.

Not as it is.

But as it is meant to be.

The walls are thin.

The people are masks.

The doctor is a puppet.

Elise is a mirror.

And you are the eye.

You pull your arm away.

She lets go.

She steps back.

She looks at the floor.

The spilled soup is gone.

There is only a stain.

A white stain.

Like the mark.

"What have you done?" she asks.

Her voice is small.

"I have seen," you say.

"You are dead," she says.

"I am alive," you say.

She laughs.

It is a bitter sound.

"Alive?" she says.

"Look at you."

You look.

You are pale.

You are thin.

You are changing.

Your skin is hardening.

It is turning to stone.

Or bone.

Or something else.

You do not care.

The mark is bright.

It is singing.

A high, thin note.

You can hear the city now.

It is not a beast.

It is a choir.

They are singing to you.

They are begging you.

Open your eyes.

See us.

See the rot.

See the truth.

You walk to the window.

You push the glass.

It does not break.

It bends.

Like water.

You lean out.

The air is cold.

It bites your face.

You look down.

The streets are empty.

The people are gone.

They have fled.

From what?

From you.

From the mark.

You look up.

The sky is black.

There are no stars.

There is only the light.

The white light.

It comes from the mark.

It spills out.

It fills the room.

Elise screams.

She covers her eyes.

"I can't see!" she shouts.

"Look," you say.

"No," she says.

"I don't want to see."

You want to comfort her.

You want to say it is fine.

But you cannot.

The truth is a wound.

It will not close.

You turn back.

Elise is on her knees.

She is crying.

Tears run down her face.

They are white.

Like milk.

Like the mark.

"Stop it," she begs.

"Stop the light."

You look at your wrist.

The mark is spreading.

It is on your hand.

It is on your arm.

It is reaching your shoulder.

You feel it.

It is warm.

It is alive.

It is hungry.

It wants more.

It wants to know.

It wants to be free.

You are the cage.

You are the key.

You are the door.

You must open.

You must let it out.

You close your eyes.

The light is blinding.

It is everywhere.

It is inside.

It is outside.

You are not you.

You are the mark.

You are the white line.

You are the cure.

And the curse.

Elise stands up.

She wipes her face.

She looks at you.

Her eyes are clear.

They are empty.

"You are gone," she says.

"I am here," you say.

But your voice is different.

It is multiple.

It is a chorus.

It is the city.

She backs away.

She hits the wall.

She falls.

She does not get up.

She is sleeping.

Or she is dead.

It does not matter.

The light grows.

It eats the walls.

It eats the floor.

It eats the furniture.

It eats the past.

It eats the future.

There is only now.

And the white.

You raise your hand.

The mark glows.

It is a sun.

A small, pale sun.

You hold it out.

You offer it.

To the dark.

To the city.

To the sickness.

Take it.

You say.

You do not speak.

You think it.

The light expands.

It fills the room.

It fills the street.

It fills the sky.

The noise stops.

The hum stops.

The ticking stops.

There is silence.

A deep, white silence.

You feel the weight.

It is heavy.

It is the weight of knowing.

It is the weight of seeing.

It is the weight of being.

You are tired.

You are so tired.

You want to sleep.

You want to forget.

You want to be blind.

But you cannot.

The mark is open.

The eye is open.

You see everything.

The rot in the walls.

The lies in the faces.

The fear in the hearts.

The pain in the bones.

It is all connected.

It is all one.

A single, white thread.

Pulling tight.

You feel it snap.

Not the thread.

Your soul.

It breaks.

It shatters.

It falls.

Into the light.

Into the white.

You are gone.

You are everywhere.

Elise wakes up.

She is alone.

The room is empty.

The glass is broken.

The floor is white.

There is no soup.

There is no stain.

There is no mark.

There is only the cold.

And the silence.

She looks at her wrist.

Her skin is smooth.

Her veins are blue.

She touches her arm.

It is warm.

It is alive.

She laughs.

It is a soft, sad sound.

She stands up.

She walks to the window.

She looks out.

The city is waking up.

The steam rises.

The cars honk.

The people walk.

They do not see the white.

They do not feel the cold.

They are blind.

They are happy.

She closes the window.

The glass is cold.

She looks at her reflection.

Her eyes are dark.

Her face is pale.

She smiles.

It is a gentle smile.

It is a lie.

She picks up the tray.

The soup is warm.

She drinks.

It tastes of ash.

And iron.

She swallows.

She feels the warmth.

It spreads.

It settles in her stomach.

It is a stone.

It is a key.

It is a door.

She looks at her wrist.

Nothing is there.

But she knows.

It is coming.

It is always coming.

The knowledge is a seed.

It is planted.

It will grow.

In the dark.

In the cold.

In the silence.

She walks to the door.

She opens it.

The city waits.

It is hungry.

It is pale.

It is white.

She steps out.

The door closes.

The lock clicks.

The silence returns.

The city hums.

It is a low, industrial groan.

It is a song.

It is a curse.

It is a gift.

And it is yours.