You must stop.

Elias looked up. His hands were stained. The ink was black. It bled into the cuts on his palms. He had been working for six hours. The room was cold. The fire had died.

"Stop," said the voice.

It was not a voice. It was a pressure. A weight. It sat on the desk. It sat on the floor. It sat in the throat.

Elias wiped his hands. He used a rag. The rag was grey. The ink smeared. He looked at the mirror. His face was old. The eyes were deep. The skin was tight. He did not recognize the man. The man did not recognize him.

"Who are you?" Elias asked.

No answer.

The city hummed outside. The trains ran late. The snow fell thick. It covered the streets. It covered the signs. It covered the names. The city was a tomb. The city was a mask.

Elias turned to the desk. The book was there. The Chronicle. The pages were thin. The text was dense. It was a record. A record of failure. A record of shame. He had written it all. Every word was true. Every word was a lie.

He opened the book. The first page was blank. The last page was torn. The middle was full. Full of names. Full of dates. Full of silence.

He reached for his pen. The pen was heavy. The nib was sharp. He touched the paper. The ink flowed. It was red. Not black. Red like blood. Red like life.

He stopped.

The red dot spread. It became a circle. It became a mouth. The mouth opened. It spoke.

"You are the same."

Elias dropped the pen. The pen rolled. It hit the floor. It clattered. The sound was loud. The sound was final.

He stood up. His legs shook. The chair fell back. It scraped the wood. The sound was harsh. He looked at the window. The snow was falling. It was endless. It was white. It was clean.

He wanted to go outside. He wanted to run. He wanted to scream. He could not move. The pressure was back. It was in his chest. It was in his head. It was in the book.

The book was watching. The pages were turning. The wind was not blowing. The pages turned themselves. They flipped fast. They made a sound. Like wings. Like rain.

He saw his name. It was written on the wall. It was written in the air. It was written in his mind.

Elias Vance.

He had forgotten his name. He had been Elias for so long. He had been Elias for years. He had been Elias for a lifetime.

Now the name was a chain. Now the name was a cage.

He looked at the door. The door was closed. The knob was brass. The brass was cold. He reached for it. His hand trembled. The hand was not his. The hand was the city. The hand was the past.

He opened the door.

The hallway was dark. The light from the street came through the window. It was yellow. It was sick. The floor was bare. The floor was hard. He stepped out. The air was thin. The air was stale.

He walked. He did not know where. He did not know why. He walked because he could not stop. The pressure pushed him. The pressure pulled him. He was a puppet. He was a ghost.

He reached the stairs. The stairs were steep. The wood was old. It creaked under his weight. He went down. One step. Two steps. Three steps.

He reached the street.

The snow was deep. The street was empty. The shops were closed. The signs were dark. The city was asleep. The city was dead.

He walked to the corner. The corner was sharp. The corner was cold. He stopped. He looked back. The building was tall. The windows were dark. One window was lit. The light was flickering.

It was his room.

He looked at the light. The light was a fire. The fire was a life. The life was a lie.

He turned away. He walked into the snow. The snow was cold. It stung his face. It filled his mouth. He did not cough. He did not spit. He swallowed. The snow was bitter. The snow was salty.

He walked to the bridge. The bridge was long. The river was black. The water was still. The water was deep.

He stood at the edge. The rail was iron. The iron was rusted. He held the rail. The metal was cold. It burned his hands. He did not let go.

He looked at the water. The water reflected the sky. The sky was grey. The sky was heavy. The sky was falling.

He thought of the book. The book was in the room. The book was waiting. The book was hungry.

He thought of the voice. The voice was in his head. The voice was in his chest. The voice was in the water.

"You must go," said the voice.

"No," said Elias.

He did not move. He did not jump. He stood. He stood on the edge. He stood in the snow. He stood in the dark.

The voice laughed. The laugh was dry. The laugh was cruel. The laugh was his own.

Elias closed his eyes. The darkness was total. The darkness was complete. The darkness was kind.

He opened his eyes.

The water was gone. The bridge was gone. The city was gone.

He was in the room.

He was at the desk.

The book was open.

The pen was in his hand.

The ink was black.

He looked at the page. The page was blank. The page was waiting.

He began to write.

The words came fast. The words came hard. The words came true.

He wrote his name. He wrote his shame. He wrote his fear. He wrote his love. The love was destructive. The love consumed him. The love ate him.

He wrote until his hand cramped. He wrote until the ink ran out. He wrote until the paper tore.

He stopped.

He looked at the door. The door was open.

Someone was standing there.

It was a man. The man was tall. The man was thin. The man was old. The man was young. The man was him.

The man walked in. The man did not speak. The man looked at the book. The man looked at Elias. The man smiled. The smile was sad. The smile was kind.

The man sat down. The man picked up the book. The man turned the pages. The man read the words.

The man looked up.

"You were never here," the man said.

Elias nodded.

"I was never there," Elias said.

The man nodded.

"You are the book," the man said.

Elias nodded.

"I am the ink," Elias said.

The man closed the book. The man placed it on the desk. The man stood up. The man walked to the door. The man stopped. The man turned.

"Do you feel it?" the man asked.

Elias looked at his hands. The ink was on his hands. The ink was in his skin. The ink was in his blood.

"Yes," Elias said.

The man nodded.

"It is the only way out," the man said.

The man left. The door closed. The sound was soft. The sound was final.

Elias looked at the book. The book was closed. The book was silent. The book was full.

He picked up the pen. The pen was empty. He dipped it in the inkwell. The inkwell was dry.

He looked at the mirror. The man in the mirror was gone. The mirror was empty. The mirror was black. The mirror was a hole.

He looked at the window. The snow had stopped. The street was clear. The street was bright. The sun was rising. The sun was cold. The sun was white.

He walked to the window. He opened the window. The air came in. The air was fresh. The air was clean.

He leaned out. The city was below. The city was small. The city was quiet. The city was real.

He looked at the book. The book was on the desk. The book was the anchor. The book was the chain. The book was the lie.

He picked up the book. The book was heavy. The book was warm. The book was alive.

He walked to the window. He held the book. He held the pen. He held the ink.

He stepped out.

The wind took him. The wind took the book. The wind took the ink. The wind took the name.

He fell.

He did not scream. He did not cry. He did not move.

He fell through the air. He fell through the snow. He fell through the dark.

He landed.

The sound was soft. The sound was like a leaf. The sound was like a breath.

He was on the street. The snow was around him. The snow was under him. The snow was over him.

He was gone.

The book was gone.

The ink was gone.

The name was gone.

The city woke. The trains ran. The people walked. The people looked at the spot. The spot was clean. The spot was empty.

No one saw anything. No one heard anything. No one knew anything.

The snow continued. The snow covered the street. The snow covered the past. The snow covered the truth.

The loop closed. The loop was perfect. The loop was eternal.

Elias was writing. Elias was writing. Elias was writing.

The ink flowed. The ink was red. The ink was black. The ink was blood. The ink was life.

He wrote his name. He wrote his end. He wrote his beginning.

The page was full. The page was blank. The page was new.

He started again.