The ink bled.

Elias watched it spread.

It was a violet stain.

It looked like a bruise.

It looked like a wound.

It was on the paper.

It was on his hand.

The factory hummed.

The steam hissed.

The air was thick.

It tasted of coal.

It tasted of iron.

Elias wiped his thumb.

The violet remained.

He looked up.

The room was vast.

The ceiling was high.

The pipes were black.

They twisted like veins.

They pulsed with heat.

They breathed with smoke.

He was alone.

He was not alone.

There was a door.

It was at the end.

It was white.

It was silent.

It was waiting.

Elias walked toward it.

His boots clanked.

The sound was sharp.

The sound was lonely.

He touched the handle.

It was cold.

It was smooth.

It was iron.

He turned it.

It opened.

There was no door.

There was only air.

There was only light.

The light was blue.

The light was soft.

It was not sunlight.

It was not moonlight.

It was something else.

It was memory.

It was loss.

It was the color of forgetting.

Elias stepped through.

The factory vanished.

The steam vanished.

The noise vanished.

He was standing in a field.

The grass was tall.

The grass was silver.

It moved in a wind.

There was no wind.

The wind was inside.

The wind was him.

He looked down.

His hands were clean.

The violet was gone.

He looked up.

The sky was empty.

The stars were out.

The stars were wrong.

They were too close.

They were too bright.

They were eyes.

They were watching.

A voice spoke.

It was not loud.

It was not soft.

It was clear.

It was Elias.

It was not Elias.

It was the other one.

The other one who stayed.

The other one who did not leave.

The voice said, "You left the mark."

Elias did not answer.

He could not answer.

His throat was dry.

His throat was tight.

He felt the pull.

It was in his chest.

It was in his bones.

It was the pull of the road.

The road was here.

The road was everywhere.

The road was the field.

The road was the sky.

The road was the ink.

He walked.

He did not know where.

He walked toward the stars.

He walked toward the light.

He walked toward the end.

The grass brushed his legs.

It felt like fingers.

It felt like hair.

It felt like Sarah.

Sarah was dead.

Sarah was gone.

Sarah was the ink.

Sarah was the violet.

Sarah was the stain.

He had tried to wash it.

He had tried to hide it.

He had tried to sell it.

He had tried to forget it.

He could not.

The stain was him.

The stain was the truth.

The truth was heavy.

The truth was cold.

The truth was free.

He stopped.

The stars were close.

He reached up.

His hand was empty.

His hand was full.

He grabbed the light.

The light was solid.

The light was warm.

It was like skin.

It was like breath.

It was like love.

He held it.

He held it tight.

He did not let go.

The field began to shake.

The grass began to tear.

The sky began to crack.

The stars began to fall.

They fell like rain.

They fell like dust.

They fell like tears.

Elias fell with them.

He fell into the dark.

He fell into the silence.

He fell into the void.

The void was not empty.

The void was full.

It was full of noise.

It was full of light.

It was full of pain.

It was full of joy.

It was full of everything.

It was full of nothing.

He was floating.

He was sinking.

He was waking.

He was sleeping.

He was dying.

He was living.

He was free.

The freedom was heavy.

The freedom was cold.

The freedom was real.

He opened his eyes.

He was in the factory.

The steam was still.

The air was thick.

The pipes were black.

The room was vast.

The door was closed.

The handle was cold.

His hand was clean.

The violet was gone.

He looked at his hand.

It was smooth.

It was pale.

It was empty.

He was empty.

He had left it behind.

He had left the stain behind.

He had left the love behind.

He had left the pain behind.

He was free.

The freedom was a cage.

The cage was gold.

The cage was light.

The cage was silence.

He walked to the window.

The glass was dirty.

The glass was cold.

He looked out.

The street was empty.

The lamps were on.

The lamps were yellow.

The lamps were dim.

The lamps were dead.

A man was walking.

The man was old.

The man was slow.

The man was carrying a bag.

The bag was heavy.

The bag was dark.

The man was Elias.

The man was not Elias.

The man was the one who stayed.

The man was the one who kept the stain.

The man was the one who kept the pain.

The man was the one who kept the love.

Elias watched him.

He did not call out.

He did not move.

He did not speak.

He was still.

He was empty.

He was free.

The man walked away.

The man disappeared.

The street was empty.

The lamps were dim.

The night was deep.

Elias turned back.

He looked at the door.

The door was white.

The door was silent.

The door was waiting.

He did not open it.

He did not close it.

He stood there.

He stood there.

He stood there.

The steam hissed.

The pipes pulsed.

The air was thick.

The ink was gone.

The stain was gone.

The love was gone.

The pain was gone.

The freedom remained.

The freedom was cold.

The freedom was heavy.

The freedom was real.

He was the man.

He was the one who stayed.

He was the one who kept the stain.

He was the one who kept the pain.

He was the one who kept the love.

He was not free.

He was never free.

The freedom was a lie.

The freedom was a trap.

The freedom was the stain.

The stain was the road.

The road was the end.

The end was the beginning.

The beginning was the ink.

The ink was the blood.

The blood was the life.

The life was the death.

The death was the life.

The cycle was complete.

The cycle was broken.

The cycle was whole.

Elias closed his eyes.

He saw the violet.

He felt the warmth.

He heard the voice.

The voice said, "You are home."

Elias opened his eyes.

He was alone.

He was free.

He was trapped.

He was home.

The steam hissed.

The pipes pulsed.

The night was deep.

The ink bled.

The ink was gone.

The ink was here.

The ink was him.

The ink was the road.

The road was the end.

The end was the beginning.

The beginning was the ink.

The ink was the blood.

The blood was the life.

The life was the death.

The death was the life.

The cycle was complete.

The cycle was broken.

The cycle was whole.

Elias stood there.

He stood there.

He stood there.

The steam hissed.

The pipes pulsed.

The air was thick.

The night was deep.

The ink bled.

The ink was gone.

The ink was here.

The ink was him.

The ink was the road.

The road was the end.

The end was the beginning.

The beginning was the ink.

The ink was the blood.

The blood was the life.

The life was the death.

The death was the life.

The cycle was complete.

The cycle was broken.

The cycle was whole.

Elias closed his eyes.

He saw the violet.

He felt the warmth.

He heard the voice.

The voice said, "You are home."

Elias opened his eyes.

He was alone.

He was free.

He was trapped.

He was home.