The bell rang. It did not chime. It screamed. A high, thin shriek that tore through the silence of the office like a nail pulled from dry wood. I flinched. My hand tightened on the edge of the desk. The wood was cold. I liked the cold. It kept the heat out.

"Stop it," I whispered.

The bell rang again.

I looked up. The room was empty. No one was there. No one was ever there. Just the files. Thousands of them. Stacks of manila folders reaching up to the ceiling. They swayed in a wind that had no source.

"Who is it?" I asked.

My voice sounded strange in my own ears. Flat. Dry. Like sandpaper on skin.

The door at the end of the hall opened. A figure stepped in. He wore a suit the color of ash. His face was a blur, like a photograph taken in motion. I could not see his eyes. I could only see the smile. It was wide. Too wide. It stretched the skin of his cheeks until they looked thin as paper.

"Officer," he said.

I stood up. My legs felt heavy. Leaden. "I am not an officer," I said. "I am a clerk."

He laughed. It was a soft sound. Like a leaf falling on water. "We all have roles, my friend. Yours is to listen."

"Listen to what?"

"To the truth."

He walked toward me. Each step was precise. Measured. He stopped at the edge of my desk. He placed a file on the surface. It was thick. Heavy. I could feel the weight of it even from across the room.

"Open it," he said.

I did not move. "I have other work."

"There is no other work."

I looked at the file. My name was on it. Not written. Embossed. The letters glowed with a faint, sickly light.

I opened it.

The pages were blank.

But as I read them, words appeared. Not written by a hand. They bled out of the paper. Black ink. Dark and wet.

*You remember the storm,* it said.

I closed the file. My hands were shaking.

"I don't remember," I said.

"You do."

"Who are you?"

"I am the one who remembers for you."

He pointed to the door. "Go. There is someone waiting for you."

I stood up. My knees buckled. I caught myself on the desk. The files rattled. The bell rang again. This time, it sounded like a heartbeat.

I walked to the door. My footsteps echoed. *Clack. Clack. Clack.* Like bones breaking.

I stepped into the hallway. It was long. Endless. The walls were lined with mirrors. In each mirror, I saw a different face. Some were old. Some were young. Some were dead. All of them were wearing my uniform.

I walked faster. The mirrors multiplied. I saw myself smiling. I saw myself crying. I saw myself shooting.

"Who are they?" I asked the air.

"They are you," said a voice behind me.

I turned.

The man in the ash suit was gone. In his place stood a woman. She wore a white dress. It was stained with mud. Her hair was loose. Wild. She looked at me with eyes that were full of water.

"Margaret," I said.

She nodded.

"Where is she?" I asked.

"Everywhere," she said.

I looked at my hands. They were covered in mud. I didn't know how I got it there.

"What happened?" I asked.

"She fell," the woman said. "You let her fall."

"No," I said. "I saved her."

"You let go."

I felt a sharp pain in my chest. Like a knife twisting. I grabbed at my shirt. The fabric was soaked. Sweat. Blood. I couldn't tell which.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because it was easier."

I looked at the mirrors. They were all showing the same thing now. A girl falling. Her arms outstretched. Her mouth open in a silent scream.

I knew her. I knew the shape of her face. The way her hair twisted in the wind.

"Her name," I whispered. "What was her name?"

The woman in the white dress smiled. It was the same smile as the man in the ash suit.

"You know," she said.

I didn't know.

I walked toward the end of the hallway. The mirrors faded. The light grew brighter. It was blinding. I squinted.

There was a door. It was made of gold. It was small. Child-sized.

I stopped in front of it. My hand hovered over the handle. It was warm. Alive.

"Open it," the voice said. It was not the woman's voice. It was not the man's. It was my own.

I turned the handle.

The door opened.

Inside was a garden. Green. Lush. Vibrant. Flowers bloomed in colors I had no names for. The air smelled of rain and ozone.

I stepped inside.

The grass was soft under my boots. I took off my boots. I kicked them away. I walked barefoot on the earth. It was cool. Moist.

I saw a bench. It was empty.

I sat down.

I waited.

Nothing happened.

I stood up. I looked around. The garden was beautiful. But it was silent. No birds. No wind. No sound.

It was a trap.

I realized it then. The gold door. The garden. The silence. It was a cage. A pretty cage.

I ran back to the door.

It was closed.

I pounded on it. My fists hit the gold surface. *Bang. Bang. Bang.*

"Let me out!" I screamed.

No one answered.

I looked down at my hands. The mud was gone. My hands were clean. Pristine.

I was not a clerk. I was not an officer. I was a ghost.

I had been dead for years.

I sat back down on the bench. The garden remained. The flowers bloomed. The silence held.

I began to sing.

I didn't know the words. They came from deep inside me. From the place where the pain lived. I sang of the storm. I sang of the fall. I sang of the girl whose name I could not remember.

I sang until my voice broke.

I sang until my throat bled.

I sang until the garden changed.

The flowers wilted. The grass turned brown. The sky darkened.

The gold door opened again.

I walked out.

I was back in the office. The files were still there. The bell was silent.

The man in the ash suit was standing by the window. He was looking out.

"Did you find her?" he asked.

I looked at him. I didn't feel fear anymore. I felt nothing.

"Who is she?" I asked.

He turned to me. His face was clear now. It was my face. Older. Wiser. Sad.

"She is you," he said.

I laughed. It was a dry sound.

"I am not her," I said.

"You are what she became."

I walked to the desk. I picked up the file. It was no longer heavy. It was light. Like air.

I opened it.

The pages were full of words. Not black ink. Gold. Shining.

*The cycle continues,* it said. *The debt is paid. The soul is freed.*

I closed the file.

I looked at the door.

It was open.

Beyond it was not a hallway. It was a street. A city street. Rain was falling. Cars were moving. People were walking.

I stepped out.

The rain hit my face. It was cold. Real.

I walked into the crowd. I blended in. I was just another man. Just another face.

I kept walking.

I did not look back.

I did not remember the girl.

I did not remember the storm.

I only remembered the rain.

And the cold.

And the peace.

It was a good peace.

It was a quiet peace.

It was my peace.

I walked on.

The city swallowed me.

I was gone.

I was free.

Or so I thought.

The bell rang.

I stopped.

I looked around. No one else heard it.

It rang again.

I closed my eyes.

I heard the girl crying.

I opened my eyes.

I was in the office.

The file was on the desk.

The man in the ash suit was waiting.

"Again," he said.

I looked at my hands.

They were covered in mud.