The wall was white.

It had been grey.

Then brown.

Now it was white.

I touched it.

The paint was cold.

It smelled of turpentine.

And fear.

I am Captain Elias Thorne.

I am here.

I am not well.

The building breathes.

That is the first thing.

It breathes.

The bricks expand.

The mortar cracks.

A sound like a cough.

Deep in the foundation.

I hear it.

You do not.

Or you ignore it.

I am the only one who hears it.

I am the only one who sees the veins.

They pulse under the plaster.

Blue.

Black.

Thick as an arm.

The building is sick.

A fever.

A rot.

I am the doctor.

I am the ward.

I am the disease.

My name is in the file.

Redacted.

Blacked out.

Just like the veins.

We came here to fix it.

A routine inspection.

A structural audit.

Old stone.

Old steel.

Old bones.

Nothing wrong.

That was the report.

That was the lie.

I found the rot.

In the east wing.

A damp spot.

A dark stain.

It spread.

Overnight.

It moved like ink in water.

Like blood in a wound.

I called for help.

No one came.

I called again.

Silence.

The phone line was dead.

Or so it seemed.

I saw the light on the line.

Blinking.

Green.

Steady.

Waiting.

But no voice.

Only the hum.

The low, electric hum.

Of the building.

Of the wires.

Of the blood.

I went to the manager.

Mr. Halloway.

He sat at his desk.

He did not look up.

He was typing.

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

Like bones breaking.

"Sir," I said.

The wall was moving.

He stopped.

He looked at me.

His eyes were glass.

Dead.

"Report it," he said.

"I did."

"Report it again."

"It is spreading."

"Report it."

I left.

I went back.

The stain was larger.

It reached the floor.

It pooled.

Black water.

I knelt.

I dipped my hand in.

It was warm.

It was thick.

It moved.

It wrapped around my finger.

I pulled away.

It left a mark.

A blue line.

Like a vein.

I looked at my hand.

The mark pulsed.

It matched the wall.

I was one with it.

The building was in me.

I felt the pain.

A sharp twist.

In the chest.

In the lung.

I coughed.

Blood.

Red.

Bright.

I wiped it.

It stained the white shirt.

A flower.

Blooming.

I went to the medical bay.

Empty.

The lights were off.

The air was stale.

I pressed my ear to the floor.

I heard the heart.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Slow.

Weak.

Failing.

I knew then.

It was not the building.

It was us.

We were the disease.

The rot.

The decay.

The building was just the shell.

The body.

We were the virus.

I went to the roof.

The wind was cold.

It bit.

It cut.

I looked out.

The city.

Lights.

Cars.

People.

Small.

Distant.

Alive.

I looked down.

The building.

It stood tall.

Proud.

Strong.

But I knew.

It was hollow.

Empty.

Dead.

I stood on the edge.

The wind pushed.

It wanted me.

It called.

Come.

Join.

Be part of the wall.

Be part of the vein.

Be part of the breath.

I stepped back.

I was tired.

So tired.

I had carried this for years.

The weight.

The secret.

The shame.

I was the soldier.

The guard.

The one who holds the line.

But the line was breaking.

The enemy was inside.

It was in my blood.

It was in my bone.

I could not fight it.

I could not cure it.

I could only contain it.

Or release it.

I thought of my sister.

Elara.

She was far away.

In the south.

She called.

Every Sunday.

I never answered.

I was too busy.

Too sick.

Too full.

I owed her a truth.

I owed her a peace.

I went to the office.

I sat at my desk.

I opened the drawer.

The file.

My file.

I took it out.

I read.

My name.

My rank.

My record.

Clean.

Spotless.

A lie.

I looked at the paper.

The ink.

Black.

Sharp.

It was the same ink.

As the stain.

As the vein.

I understood.

The system.

It was the body.

We were the cells.

Some were healthy.

Some were cancer.

I was cancer.

I was the tumor.

Growing.

Spreading.

Killing.

I had to go.

I had to burn.

I had to die.

For the sake of the whole.

Sacrifice.

Redemption.

The words were heavy.

Like stones.

I picked up the pen.

I wrote a letter.

To Elara.

To Halloway.

To the building.

I wrote the truth.

I wrote the pain.

I wrote the love.

I wrote the end.

I sealed it.

I put it in the slot.

The mail slot.

It was closed.

Locked.

I broke it open.

The metal bent.

It sang.

A high, clear note.

I dropped the letter.

It fell.

White.

Clean.

It landed on the floor.

It spread.

Like a wing.

Like a leaf.

Like a ghost.

I looked at the wall.

The stain was gone.

The white was pure.

The air was clear.

The hum was silent.

The heart was still.

I felt light.

Empty.

Free.

I stood up.

I walked to the door.

I opened it.

The hallway was dark.

The lights were out.

I walked.

Step.

Step.

Step.

My shadow.

Long.

Thin.

It stretched.

It reached.

It touched the wall.

It merged.

I was the shadow.

I was the dark.

I was the end.

I reached the stairs.

I went up.

To the roof.

The wind was stronger.

It screamed.

It howled.

It welcomed.

I stood on the edge.

I looked down.

The city.

Bright.

Alive.

Beautiful.

I thought of Elara.

I thought of the sun.

I thought of the sea.

I smiled.

I felt the love.

Obsessive.

Deep.

True.

I closed my eyes.

I breathed.

In.

Out.

The building breathed with me.

One last time.

I stepped forward.

I did not fall.

I flew.

I was the wind.

I was the air.

I was the light.

I was the wall.

I was the vein.

I was the heart.

I was the whole.

I was the end.

And the beginning.

And the middle.

And the silence.

And the sound.

And the breath.

And the life.

And the death.

And the rest.

I am here.

I am gone.

I am the white.

I am the black.

I am the space between.

I am the truth.

I am the lie.

I am the man.

I am the building.

I am the disease.

I am the cure.

I am the sacrifice.

I am the redemption.

I am the pale path.

I am the way out.

I am the way in.

I am the everything.

I am the nothing.

I am the end.