The train slows. It does not stop. It just drifts, heavy with the weight of your own breath, toward a platform that smells of wet iron and old pine. You are standing. You have always been standing.

"Look at this," says Elias. He holds a jar of blackberries. They are bruised. They bleed a dark, sweet rot onto the glass. "I found these. On the tracks. Growing out of the concrete."

You take the jar. It is cold. Your fingers are numb. You have been walking for a long time. Or maybe you have been sitting. Time is a bad witness here. It shifts. It lies.

"Who planted them?" you ask.

Elias shrugs. He is wearing a suit that is too bright for this gray place. Yellow. It mocks the dust. "No one. That’s the point. They just want to be here."

You look at the berries. They look like your eyes. Or maybe your eyes look like them. It is hard to tell when the mirror is dirty. You are a merchant of silence. You sell quiet to those who cannot sleep. You have a shop in London. It has no sign. You find the customers. They knock on a door that is not there. They buy your silence by the hour. It is a good trade. It is a dead trade.

"I’m tired," Elias says.

"Sleep," you say.

"I can’t. The noise. It’s inside the walls. It’s in the floorboards. It’s in the wood itself."

He touches the window. The glass is foggy. Outside, the trees are bending. Not from wind. From weight. They are bowing toward the earth, as if asking for forgiveness.

"We should get off," Elias says.

"There is no stop."

"Then we walk."

The train lurches. A sound comes from the tracks. A groan. Like a man clearing his throat. Elias smiles. It is a thin smile. It does not reach his eyes.

"Remember the orchard?" he asks.

"I remember the fence," you say. "We broke through it."

"We were young."

"We are old."

"No. We are just here."

He opens the door. The wind rushes in. It smells of rain and decay. He steps out. You watch him go. He does not look back. He walks into the gray. His yellow suit fades. Then he is gone.

You step out after him.

The ground is soft. It gives way under your shoes. It feels like flesh. You are in a field. The field is endless. The sky is a low ceiling. It is made of clouds, but they are hard. They are stone. They press down.

You walk. You must walk. If you stop, you will forget why you are here. You are a merchant. You have a debt. You owe Elias. Or maybe Elias owes you. The ledger is torn. The pages are wet.

You find a path. It is made of stones. White stones. They are smooth. They are warm. You pick one up. It fits in your hand. It feels like a bone.

"I have a question," you say to the air.

The air does not answer. But the trees rustle. A low, humming sound. It is a song. You know the song. It is a lullaby. Your mother sang it. Before she left. Before she became a shadow in the corner of the room.

You keep walking. The path winds. It goes up. It goes down. It circles. You are walking in a circle. You know this. You have been here before. You have done this before.

You find a house. It is small. It is red. The paint is peeling. The door is open. Inside, there is a table. On the table, there is a jar. It is empty. It is the same jar Elias gave you.

You sit down. You are thirsty. You are hungry. You are alone.

A voice comes from the corner. It is a whisper. It is dry.

"You left."

You turn. There is no one there. But the air is thick. It is heavy. It is full of words.

"I didn’t leave," you say.

"You did. You sold the silence. You sold it to the men in the suits. You sold it to the men who wanted to be quiet. You sold it to me."

The voice is clear now. It is Elias.

You stand up. Your knees crack.

"I didn’t sell it to you," you say.

"You did. You sold it to the world. And the world is loud. And I am part of the world. And I am screaming."

You look at the jar. It is empty. You pick it up. You pour it out. There is nothing to pour. It is dust. Gray dust. It settles on the table. It settles on your hands.

"I’m sorry," you say.

"Sorry doesn’t fix it," the voice says. "Sorry doesn’t stop the noise."

You close your eyes. You remember the shop. The customers. They came to you because they were afraid. They were afraid of their own thoughts. They were afraid of the dark. You gave them nothing. You took their money. You took their time. You left them in the dark.

You opened your eyes. The room is gone. You are in the field again. The trees are closer. They are watching you. Their branches are like fingers. They are reaching for you.

You run.

You run through the grass. The grass is tall. It is wet. It sticks to your legs. It feels like hair. You run toward the light. There is a light in the distance. It is small. It is white. It is a door.

You run. Your lungs burn. Your heart beats. It is a drum. It is a warning.

You reach the door. It is made of wood. It is old. It is rotting. You knock.

No one answers.

You push. The door gives way. It falls inward. It hits the ground with a thud.

You step inside.

It is a room. It is small. It is white. It is clean. There is a mirror on the wall. You look at it.

You see Elias.

He is sitting in a chair. He is wearing the yellow suit. It is torn. It is dirty. He is holding a jar. It is full of blackberries.

He looks at you. He smiles.

"You’re late," he says.

"I’m here," you say.

"You’re always here. You’re always late."

He stands up. He walks toward you. He moves slowly. He moves like water.

"I have something for you," he says.

He holds out the jar. You take it. It is heavy. It is warm. You look inside. The berries are pulsing. They are alive. They are beating.

"What is this?" you ask.

"It’s the truth," he says. "It’s the noise. It’s the silence. It’s all the same thing."

You look at him. His eyes are empty. They are black. They are like the berries.

"I betrayed you," you say.

"No," he says. "I betrayed myself. I let you go. I let you sell the silence. I let you forget."

You shake your head. You feel a tear slide down your cheek. It is hot. It is salt.

"I’m sorry," you say again.

"Stop," he says. "Stop saying sorry. It’s not enough. It’s not real."

He raises the jar. He throws it at the wall. It shatters. The berries fly. They hit the floor. They spread. They crawl. They move like insects. They cover the floor. They cover your feet.

They are cold. They are wet. They are alive.

Elias stands over you. He is smiling. It is a sad smile. It is a kind smile.

"It’s over," he says.

You look at the berries. They are growing. They are spreading. They are covering the room. They are covering the walls. They are covering the ceiling.

The room is filling with black. It is a dark sea. It is a deep ocean.

You breathe. The air is thick. It is sweet. It is rotten.

You close your eyes. You feel the berries on your skin. They are soft. They are firm. They are like skin.

You are not alone.

You are part of it.

You are the merchant. You are the debt. You are the silence. You are the noise.

The black takes you. It is warm. It is safe. It is the end.

You open your eyes.

You are in the train.

The train is moving. It is fast. The windows are blurred. The platform is gone. The trees are gone. The field is gone.

Elias is sitting next to you. He is wearing the yellow suit. It is clean. It is bright.

He is looking at you. He is smiling.

"Where are we going?" you ask.

"Home," he says.

You look out the window. The world is passing by. It is gray. It is empty. It is waiting.

You pick up the jar. It is on the seat. It is full of blackberries. They are fresh. They are new.

You eat one. It is sweet. It is sour. It is real.

You close your eyes. You sleep.

The train goes on. It does not stop. It does not slow. It just goes. Into the dark. Into the light. Into the space between.

You are safe.

You are free.

You are home.