The rain hits the glass. It is cold. You are wet. Not from the rain. From inside. The office smells of stale coffee and fear. You sit at the desk. The desk is oak. It is heavy. You are not heavy. You are light. You are air.

Look at the window. The ivy grows. It climbs. It grips the brick. It does not ask permission. It just grows. You watch it. You know it well. It is you. You are it. The vines are your veins. The leaves are your breath. You are part of the building. You are part of the storm.

You are the manager. You manage people. You manage money. You manage time. You do not manage your heart. That is broken. It has been broken for years. Your sister is sick. It is a slow rot. It eats her from the inside out. Like the mold in the basement. Like the rust in the pipes. You pay the bills. You sign the checks. You smile at the clients. You lie. You lie well. You are good at lying. It is your craft.

"Hey, you. Stop staring."

The voice is sharp. It is David. He is the boss. He is young. He is rich. He smells of expensive cologne and arrogance. He stands by the door. He looks at you. He sees the water on your shirt. He sees the fear in your eyes.

"Did you finish the report?" he asks.

"Yes," you say.

"Good. Get it to me."

You nod. You do not move. You cannot move. Your legs are stone. Your heart is a drum. It beats fast. It beats loud. You hear it. He hears it.

"You look terrible," David says.

"I am fine," you say.

"Sure. Just get the report."

He leaves. The door slams. The sound is a gunshot. The room shakes. The ivy shakes. The water drips. Drip. Drip. Drip.

You pick up the pen. The ink is black. It is like blood. You write. The words are small. They are weak. They are lies. You write about profit. You write about growth. You write about success. You do not write about pain. You do not write about death. You do not write about love.

You go home. The car is cold. The seats are wet. You drive fast. The lights blur. The road is black. The rain is hard. It hammers the roof. You feel the vibration. It goes into your bones. It shakes your soul.

The house is dark. You turn on the light. The bulb is yellow. It is sickly. The room is quiet. Too quiet. You go to the kitchen. You boil water. You make tea. The steam rises. It is white. It is ghostly. You hold the cup. It burns your hands. You do not care. You drink. The tea is bitter. It tastes like dirt. It tastes like ash.

Your sister is in the bedroom. She is asleep. Her breathing is shallow. It is a whisper. It is a moan. You sit by her bed. You hold her hand. Her hand is cold. Her skin is paper. You touch her cheek. It is smooth. It is soft. You look at her face. It is beautiful. It is fading. Like a photograph in the sun.

"I am here," you whisper.

She does not answer. She sleeps. She dreams. You do not know what she dreams. You hope it is sweet. You hope it is kind. You hope it is far from this place.

You leave the room. You go to the balcony. The city is below. The lights are on. They are yellow. They are red. They are blue. They are alive. You are not alive. You are a ghost. You watch the rain. It falls. It falls. It falls.

The ivy is on the balcony. It is wild. It is strong. It has broken the concrete. It has cracked the stone. It is beautiful. It is violent. You touch a leaf. It is wet. It is cold. You pull it. It resists. It does not break. You pull harder. You pull with all your strength. You want it to die. You want it to stop. You want to stop.

The leaf breaks. The stem snaps. You hold the piece of plant in your hand. It is green. It is fresh. It is life. You throw it. It flies. It lands on the ground. It is gone.

You feel nothing. You feel empty. You are a hollow shell. You are a box. You are a machine. You go back inside. You close the door. You lock it. You sit on the floor. You are cold. You are tired. You are done.

The next day is the same. The office is the same. The rain is the same. You are the same. You are different. You are new. You have a plan. It is simple. It is cruel. It is right.

You go to David’s office. He is on the phone. He is laughing. He is loud. He is alive. You wait. You stand. You watch him. He hangs up. He sees you. He frowns.

"What?" he says.

"I am leaving," you say.

He stops. He blinks. He does not understand.

"What do you mean?" he asks.

"I am quitting. I am done. I am sick."

He laughs. It is a short laugh. It is a dry laugh. It is not kind.

"Sick? You are not sick. You are lazy. You are weak. You are useless."

"I am not weak," you say.

"You are a liar. You are a cheat. You are a failure."

He stands up. He points at you. His finger is a gun. His face is red. His eyes are wild.

"You will not leave. You will stay. You will work. You will obey."

You look at him. You see his fear. It is small. It is hidden. It is under the anger. It is under the pride. It is under the lie. He is afraid. He is afraid of you. He is afraid of the rain. He is afraid of the end.

"I am not afraid," you say.

"Liar," he says.

You pick up the file. You throw it. It hits the wall. It falls. It is open. The papers fly. They are white. They are snow. They cover the floor. They cover his shoes. They cover his face.

He backs away. He touches the papers. He wipes his face. He looks at you. His eyes are wide. His mouth is open. He is silent.

You walk out. You do not look back. The door closes. The sound is soft. It is a sigh. It is a breath.

You go to the car. You drive. You drive fast. The rain is hard. The road is wet. The lights are blur. You do not stop. You do not think. You feel the wind. It is cold. It is clean. It washes you. It cleans you.

You go to the hospital. The doors are glass. They are cold. The air is sterile. It smells of disinfectant. It smells of death. You walk. Your feet are heavy. Your heart is light.

You find her room. The door is open. She is there. She is awake. Her eyes are open. They are clear. They are bright. She looks at you. She smiles. It is small. It is real. It is true.

"You look better," she says.

Her voice is weak. It is a whisper. It is a song.

"I feel better," you say.

You sit down. You hold her hand. It is warm. It is strong. It is alive. You look at her. You see the light. It is in her eyes. It is in her soul. It is in you.

The ivy is outside. It is in the window. It is growing. It is climbing. It is reaching. It is not wild. It is not violent. It is patient. It is kind. It is loving. It is you.

You understand. You have been wrong. You have been blind. You have been afraid. You have been fighting the storm. You have been fighting the rain. You have been fighting the life. You should not fight. You should flow. You should grow. You should love.

The sickness is not the end. The sickness is the change. The sickness is the growth. The sickness is the truth.

You cry. The tears are hot. They fall on her hand. She holds them. She does not wipe them. She lets them fall. She lets them be.

"I am sorry," you say.

"You don't have to be," she says.

You look at the window. The ivy is green. It is bright. It is alive. It is beautiful. It is you.

The rain stops. The sun comes out. The light is gold. It is warm. It is soft. It touches your face. It touches her face. It touches the ivy. It touches the world.

You are not a manager. You are not a boss. You are not a liar. You are a human. You are a sibling. You are a lover. You are a leaf. You are a vine. You are a part of the whole.

The days pass. They are short. They are sweet. They are precious. You sit by her bed. You read to her. You talk to her. You laugh with her. You cry with her. You love her.

She gets worse. Her breathing is harder. Her skin is paler. Her eyes are dimmer. But she is happy. She is at peace. She is ready.

You are ready.

The last day is gray. The rain is back. It is soft. It is gentle. It is a kiss. You hold her hand. You do not let go. You never let go.

Her breathing stops. The room is quiet. The heart monitor beeps. It is slow. It is weak. Then it stops. It is a straight line. It is a horizon.

You close her eyes. You kiss her forehead. It is cool. It is smooth. It is gone.

You leave the room. You walk to the window. The ivy is there. It is tall. It is strong. It is alive. You touch it. It is warm. It is wet. It is you.

You are not broken. You are whole. You are not empty. You are full. You are not alone. You are connected. You are part of the storm. You are part of the growth. You are part of the life.

You go to the office. You do not go. You stay home. You sit by the window. You watch the rain. You watch the ivy. You watch the world.

You pick up the phone. You call David. He answers. He is angry. He is scared.

"Where are you?" he asks.

"I am home," you say.

"You are fired."

"I know," you say.

"Come back. We need you."

"No," you say.

"Why?"

"Because I am free."

He hangs up. The line is dead. The silence is loud. The silence is clean.

You smile. It is a small smile. It is a true smile. It is a free smile.

The rain falls. The ivy grows. The life continues. You continue. You are here. You are now. You are alive.

The pain is gone. The fear is gone. The lie is gone. The truth is here. It is simple. It is plain. It is real.

You are a leaf. You are a vine. You are a part of the whole.

The sun comes out. The light is gold. It is warm. It is soft. It touches your face. It touches the world.

You are free.