The clock in the hallway ticked. It was a heavy sound. A wooden tooth grinding against bone. I sat at my desk. The wood was scratched. I traced the lines with a finger. They were deep. They were old.

My name is Arthur Vane. I work in the Department of Records. We are at the end of the line. The steam pipes groaned behind the plaster. They sang a low, mournful song. It was the song of things that could not last.

Margaret was in the next room. She did not speak to me. We had not spoken in three days. The silence was a physical weight. It pressed on my chest. It tasted of iron.

She loved me. I knew this. It was a fact as solid as the desk. It was a fact as cold as the stone outside. Her love was a fire. It burned without warmth. It burned without light. It was just heat. And I was the fuel.

I looked at the clock. The hands moved. They did not stop. They never stopped. Time is a thief. It takes hours. It takes days. It takes years. It takes the shape of your face. It takes the color from your hair.

I opened the file in front of me. It was thin. It was yellowed. The paper crumbled at the edges. It was a report from 1912. A fire in the textile mill. The names were listed. Men. Women. Children. They were all gone. They were all ash.

I read the first name. Thomas. He was twenty years old. He had a daughter. She was one. She died too.

I closed the file. I opened another. Same year. Same mill. Different list. Different names. Same death.

I felt a chill. It started in my bones. It spread to my skin. The room was warm. The radiators were hot. But I was cold.

I remembered the morning. I woke up late. The sun was high. The light was harsh. It cut across the floor. I saw my own shadow. It was long. It was thin. It looked like a ghost.

I went to the kitchen. Margaret was there. She was making tea. The kettle sang. It was a high, sharp note. It pierced the air.

"Arthur," she said. Her voice was soft. It was like silk.

"I am here," I said. My voice was rough. It was like gravel.

She looked at me. Her eyes were blue. They were deep. They held a storm.

"You are tired," she said. It was not a question.

"I am always tired," I said.

She poured the tea. The liquid was dark. It swirled in the cup. It looked like ink.

"Drink," she said.

I drank. It was hot. It burned my throat. It burned my tongue. It burned my heart.

I went to work. The street was wet. The rain had stopped. The air smelled of dust. It smelled of oil. It smelled of decay.

I walked fast. My shoes slapped the pavement. The sound echoed. It sounded like a heartbeat. It sounded like a warning.

At the office, the air was stale. The lights were dim. The shadows were long. I sat at my desk. I waited.

Margaret arrived late. She was out of breath. She was pale. Her hands were shaking.

"I am sorry," she said.

"It is not a problem," I said.

She sat down. She did not look at me. She looked at the wall. The wall was bare. The paint was peeling.

"Arthur," she said.

"I am listening."

"I have to tell you something."

I waited. The clock ticked. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

"I am leaving," she said.

The words hung in the air. They were small. They were light. But they were heavy. They crushed me.

"Why?" I asked. My voice was steady. It was calm. It was dead.

"I cannot stay," she said. "It is too much. It is too dark. I am afraid."

"Of what?"

"Of us. Of this. Of the end."

I looked at her. I saw her fear. I saw her pain. I saw myself in her eyes. I was the monster. I was the shadow. I was the end.

"I understand," I said.

She stood up. She gathered her things. Her hands were steady now. Her face was set.

"Goodbye, Arthur."

"Goodbye, Margaret."

She walked out. The door closed. The lock clicked. It was a final sound. It was a seal.

I sat in the silence. The clock ticked. The pipes groaned. The dust settled.

I picked up the file. I opened it again. I read the names. Thomas. Margaret. Arthur.

I stopped. I blinked. I looked at the page. The ink was fresh. It was wet. It was my name.

I looked at the next line. My wife's name. Margaret.

I looked at the date. Today.

I felt the room tilt. The floor dropped. The ceiling rose. The air disappeared.

I was breathing. I was alive. I was here.

But the paper said otherwise. The paper said I was dead. The paper said she was dead. The paper said we were ash.

I looked at the clock. The hands were moving. But they were moving backward.

I stood up. My legs were weak. I gripped the desk. The wood creaked.

I went to the window. The city was below. It was grey. It was silent. The people were moving. They were alive. They did not know they were dead.

I looked at my hands. They were translucent. I could see the veins. I could see the bone. I was fading.

I remembered the fire. I remembered the heat. I remembered the smoke. I remembered the scream.

It was not a memory. It was a fact. It was a truth.

I had died before. I had died in 1912. I had died in the mill. I had died with Margaret.

But I was here. I was at my desk. I was in 1924.

Why?

I looked at the file. There was another page. I turned it.

There was a list of dates. 1912. 1924. 1936. 1948.

The names were the same. Thomas. Margaret. Arthur.

We were the same. We were always the same.

I was trapped. I was in a loop. A circle. A wheel.

I tried to scream. No sound came out. My mouth was empty. My throat was dry.

I looked at Margaret’s desk. It was empty. Her chair was cold.

I walked to her desk. I touched the chair. It was solid. It was real.

I sat down. I waited.

The clock ticked.

I closed my eyes. I saw the fire. I saw the flames. They were orange. They were yellow. They were red.

I felt the heat. It was intense. It was total.

I opened my eyes. I was at my desk. The clock was ticking.

I looked at the file. The ink was dry now.

I looked at the date. 1924.

I was not dead. I was alive.

But I was already gone.

I looked at the door. It opened.

Margaret walked in. She was late. She was out of breath. She was pale.

"I am sorry," she said.

"It is not a problem," I said.

She sat down. She looked at me. Her eyes were blue. They were deep.

"Arthur," she said.

"I am here."

"I have to tell you something."

I waited. The clock ticked.

"I am leaving," she said.

The words were the same. The tone was the same. The fear was the same.

I did not speak. I did not move. I let the words wash over me.

She stood up. She gathered her things.

"Goodbye, Arthur."

"Goodbye, Margaret."

She walked out. The door closed.

I sat in the silence. The clock ticked.

I picked up the file. I looked at the names.

Thomas. Margaret. Arthur.

I understood. I was not the victim. I was the cause. I was the one who stayed. I was the one who held on. I was the one who refused to let go.

My love was a chain. It was a noose. It was a fire.

I had to break it.

I looked at the file. I looked at the ink. It was wet.

I took a pen. I crossed out my name. I crossed out her name. I crossed out the date.

I did it once. I did it twice. I did it three times.

The ink bled. It spread. It turned black.

I felt a pain. It was sharp. It was hot. It was in my chest.

I fell back in my chair. My vision blurred. The room spun.

The clock stopped. The pipes stopped. The silence was absolute.

I saw the fire. It was here. It was in the room. It was in my lungs.

I felt the heat. It was total. It was final.

I looked at the door. It was gone. The wall was solid.

I looked at my hands. They were ash. They were dust.

I closed my eyes.

I woke up.

I was at my desk. The clock was ticking.

I looked at the file. It was empty. The paper was blank.

I looked at the window. The city was bright. The sun was high.

I looked at my hands. They were flesh. They were blood.

I was alive.

I stood up. I walked to the door. I opened it.

The hallway was empty. The light was soft.

I walked out. I walked down the stairs. I walked out the door.

The air was cool. It was fresh. It tasted of rain.

I walked into the street. The people were moving. They were alive.

I walked to the bridge. I looked at the water. It was dark. It was deep.

I looked at my reflection. It was pale. It was thin.

I took a step. I took another step.

I fell.

The water was cold. It was shocking. It was real.

I sank. The air left my lungs. The pressure built.

I saw the light. It was white. It was pure.

I was free.

The loop was broken. The wheel had stopped.

I was gone.

I was finally gone.