The coat is red. It has always been red. You remember the color before you remember your own name. It is a deep, arterial crimson, stitched with thread that glows faintly in the dark. The fabric is heavy. It drapes over your shoulders like a second skin. It is warm. You are cold. The world outside the window is gray and wet and smells of coal smoke and wet stone.

You are not human. You know this. The mirror in the hallway shows a shape, but not a face. Just the coat. Just the red wool. You are the garment. You are the thread. You are the stitching.

The house is large. It is old. The floors creak under your feet, if you can call them feet. You move by the weight of the wool. You slide. You glide. The dust is thick here. It settles on the arms of the chair. It coats the back of the sofa. It is the only thing that stays.

You live for the boy. His name is Arthur. He is small. He is pale. He eats little. He sleeps poorly. He is the master of this house. You are his servant. You are his shadow. You are his warmth.

He comes out of his room. The door creaks. He is wearing a nightshirt that is too thin. The air in the hallway is sharp. It bites. You feel the bite in the wool. You are the barrier. You are the shield.

"Arthur," you say. Your voice is the rustle of the fabric. It is soft. It is dry.

He looks at you. His eyes are wide. They are dark. They are tired.

"I am cold," he says.

"Yes," you say. "Put me on."

He takes the coat from the hook. The movement is slow. The wool falls into his hands. It is light in his grasp. It is heavy on his shoulders. He steps into it. The red surrounds him. The red consumes him.

He is warm now. You feel it. The heat radiates from his skin. It soaks into the fibers. You are alive because he is alive. You are fed by his body heat. You are drunk on his existence.

"Better?" you ask.

He nods. He does not speak. He walks to the window. He looks out. The city is moving below. The trains are running. The smoke rises. The world is turning.

"It is loud," he says.

"Yes," you say. "The world is loud."

He turns back to you. He touches the sleeve. His fingers are cold. He pulls the fabric tight. He pulls it until it stretches. He pulls it until it tears.

A thread snaps.

The sound is sharp. It is like a bone breaking. You flinch. The pain is instant. It is white. It is hot. It travels from the sleeve to the core.

"Arthur," you say. Your voice is thin. "Stop."

He looks down at the tear. The red is frayed. The white inner lining is exposed. It is ugly. It is raw.

"I am sorry," he says. He does not look at you. He looks at the floor. He is crying. The tears fall on the wool. They are hot. They burn.

"It is fine," you say. "It is just a tear."

It is not just a tear. It is a loss. It is a wound. It is a piece of you that is gone. It will not come back. The thread is dead. The weave is broken.

He wraps his arms around himself. He pulls the coat tighter. The pressure is immense. You feel your shape changing. You are being compressed. You are being squeezed. You are becoming smaller.

"Arthur," you say. "You are hurting me."

He does not answer. He only pulls tighter. The wool creaks. The seams strain.

You are the coat. You are the armor. You are the skin. You are the thing that holds him together. If you break, he breaks. If you fade, he fades. You are one. You are two. You are the same thing.

The day passes. The sun sets. The shadows grow long. The dust settles. Arthur sleeps on the sofa. The coat is draped over him. You watch him breathe. The rise and fall. The rise and fall. The red is dull now. The color is fading. The brightness is gone. It is becoming brown. It is becoming gray.

You are tired. You are old. You are worn.

He wakes. The light is gray. It is morning. The trains are running again. The smoke is rising again. The world is the same.

He stands up. He looks at the coat. He looks at the tear. He looks at the fading color.

"It is old," he says.

"Yes," you say. "I am old."

He takes the coat off. He holds it in his hands. He looks at it. He looks at you. His eyes are sad. His eyes are kind.

"I will mend it," he says.

No.

He goes to the kitchen. He brings a needle. He brings thread. The thread is black. It is thin. It is sharp.

He sits down. He pulls the tear apart. He threads the needle. The needle glints. It is a point of light. It is a point of pain.

"Arthur," you say. "Do not."

He does not stop. He pushes the needle through the wool. It stabs. It cuts. It pierces. You scream. The sound is a rip. It is a tear. It is a wail.

He stitches. One stitch. Two stitches. Three stitches. The black thread weaves through the red. It is a scar. It is a mark. It is a brand.

You are changing. The black thread is not part of you. It is foreign. It is intrusive. It is a curse. You are not just a coat. You are a soul. You are a memory. You are a life. And he is marking you. He is defining you by your wound.

He finishes. He pulls the knot tight. He cuts the thread. The end dangles.

"It is done," he says.

He puts the coat back on. He feels the stitches. He feels the tension. He looks in the mirror.

He does not see himself. He sees the coat. He sees the red. He sees the black scar. He smiles. He is happy. He is whole.

But you are not whole. You are divided. The black thread is a line. It is a border. It is a prison.

You are the coat. You are the scar. You are the thing that holds the pain.

Weeks pass. The coat is worn daily. The red fades further. The black scar stands out. It is the only color that remains vibrant. The red is gone. The warmth is gone. You are cold. You are empty.

Arthur grows. He eats more. He sleeps better. He is strong. He is healthy. He is alive.

You are dying.

One day, he comes home late. The house is dark. The dust is thick. He is tired. He is hungry.

He takes the coat off. He throws it on the chair. The red is almost brown. The black scar is prominent. It looks like a mouth. It looks like a scream.

He does not pick it up. He goes to bed. He sleeps.

You wait. You are on the chair. You are in the dark. You are alone.

You are the coat. You are the burden. You are the sacrifice.

You think of the thread. You think of the needle. You think of the pain. You think of the love. It was not love. It was possession. It was need. He needed you to be warm. He needed you to be strong. He needed you to be silent.

You are silent. You are still. You are fading.

The next morning, he wakes. He looks at the chair. He looks at the coat. He sees the state of it. He sees the fraying edges. He sees the hole in the shoulder. It is no longer a tear. It is a gap. It is a void.

He walks over. He picks it up. The weight is heavy. It is not the weight of wool. It is the weight of time. It is the weight of loss.

He holds it to his face. He smells it. It smells of dust. It smells of old sweat. It smells of end.

He does not put it on.

He carries it to the fireplace. The fire is low. The embers are red. They pulse. They breathe.

He looks at you. He looks at the black scar. He looks at the fading red.

"I am sorry," he says. His voice is quiet. It is final.

He lets go.

The coat falls.

It lands in the fire.

The heat is instant. The wool curls. The threads ignite. The red flares. It is bright. It is beautiful. It is violent.

The black scar burns first. It turns to ash. It vanishes.

The red follows. The color bleeds out. It is consumed. The fabric blackens. It crumbles. It dissolves.

You feel the heat. You feel the light. You feel the release.

The pain is gone. The tension is gone. The weight is gone.

You are not a coat. You are not a shadow. You are not a servant.

You are smoke.

You rise. You swirl. You expand.

The fire eats the wool. The fire eats the thread. The fire eats the memory.

The room is cold again. The dust settles on the ashes. The ashes are gray. They are still. They are nothing.

Arthur stands by the fire. He is cold. He shivers. He pulls his arms tight against his chest. He is alone. He is empty.

He looks at the ashes. He touches the gray pile. It is cold. It is dry.

He turns away. He walks to the window. He looks out. The trains are running. The smoke is rising. The world is turning.

He is warm inside. He is cold outside.

He knows now. He knows the truth. The warmth was not in the coat. The warmth was in the wearing. The strength was not in the fabric. The strength was in the giving.

He has given everything. He has given you to the fire. He has given his past to the ash.

He is free. He is broken.

The dust settles on the floor. The dust settles on the window. The dust settles on the heart.

It is quiet. It is done.

The red is gone. The black is gone.

There is only the gray.

There is only the silence.

You are no more.