The fog rolls in from the harbor. It is thick. It is white. You step off the train. The platform is cold. Iron clings to your coat. You are tired. Your bones ache. You have walked for three days. Your boots are heavy. They are wet. The town of Millhaven is small. It is grey. The smoke from the factories rises. It mixes with the fog. It becomes one. You look at the map in your hand. It is old. The ink is faded. You look for the door. You know it is there. You must find it.

You walk into the town. The streets are narrow. The cobblestones are slick. You pass a baker. The bread is warm. You do not stop. You pass a blacksmith. The hammer rings. It sounds like a bell. You keep walking. Your heart beats fast. Your breath is short. You are looking for the boundary. The path is the line. The line is the edge. You cannot cross it. You must stay on the path. Or you will fall.

You see a man. He stands by the wall. He is old. His face is rough. He watches you. You know him. You do not want to know him. His name is Silas. He was your friend. He was your brother in arms. You fought together. You bled together. Now he is here. He is waiting. He does not smile. His eyes are hard. They are like stones.

"Edward," he says.

His voice is low. It is rough. Like gravel. You stop. You look at him. Your hand goes to your belt. You do not draw your weapon. You do not need to. He does not move. He is still.

"I thought you would not come," Silas says.

"I had to come," you say.

"Is that true?" he asks.

"Yes," you say.

Silas looks at the fog. It is thicker now. It hides the street. It hides the houses. It hides the sky. "The door is open," he says.

"What door?" you ask.

He points. His finger is thin. It is white. It points to the end of the street. There is a building. It is dark. It is tall. It is made of stone. There is a door. It is pale. It is white. It glows. It is the only bright thing in the fog. It is the boundary. It is the path.

"It has been open for a long time," Silas says.

"Who opened it?" you ask.

Silas looks at you. He looks deep into your eyes. He does not blink. "We did," he says.

You feel a chill. It is in your chest. It is in your blood. You look at the door. It pulses. It breathes. It is alive. You know what it is. You know what it wants. It wants to cross. It wants to come out. You are the gatekeeper. You are the wall. You are the line.

"We are tired, Edward," Silas says.

His voice is soft now. It is sad. It is heavy. "We have held it for years. It is too much. It is too heavy. We cannot hold it anymore. It is breaking us. It is breaking the town. The people are sick. The children cry. The dogs howl. It is eating us. It is eating the stone. It is eating the air. We must let it go. Or we will die. And it will take us with it."

You look at the fog. It is moving. It is swirling. It is hungry. You see shapes in it. They are dark. They are long. They are reaching out. They are touching the walls. They are touching the windows. They are touching the people. The people are afraid. They are silent. They are watching. They are waiting.

"We cannot let it out," you say.

"You must," Silas says.

"Why?" you ask.

"Because it is the only way," Silas says.

You look at Silas. You look at his hands. They are shaking. He is afraid. He is tired. He is broken. You understand. You understand the weight. You understand the pain. You understand the fear. You have held it too. You have held it for so long. Your hands are shaking too. Your legs are weak. Your mind is foggy. You are tired. You are so tired.

"I will not let it out," you say.

Silas nods. He nods slowly. He looks at the door. He looks at you. He turns. He walks away. He walks into the fog. He does not look back. You watch him go. He is gone. He is swallowed. The fog closes over him. He is gone.

You are alone. You stand on the street. The fog is thick. It is cold. It is wet. You look at the door. It is close now. It is right there. It is pulsing. It is bright. It is beautiful. It is terrible. You walk toward it. Your steps are heavy. Your heart is heavy. You are walking to the end. You are walking to the line. You are walking to the edge.

You reach the door. It is cold. It is smooth. It is white. You put your hand on it. It is warm. It is alive. It pulses under your hand. It beats like a heart. You close your eyes. You feel it. You feel the pressure. You feel the weight. You feel the hunger. It is there. It is behind you. It is in the fog. It is in the air. It is in the stone. It is in your blood. It is in your bone. It is in your soul.

You open your eyes. You look at the door. You see your reflection. It is pale. It is old. It is tired. It is you. You are the door. You are the boundary. You are the path. You are the line. You are the wall. You are the lock. You are the key. You are the thing that holds. You are the thing that breaks.

You lift your hand. You strike the door. You strike it hard. You strike it with all your strength. You strike it with all your anger. You strike it with all your fear. You strike it with all your love. You strike it with all your hate. You strike it with all your life. The door does not break. It does not move. It does not open. It stands. It waits. It watches.

You strike it again. And again. And again. Your hand is bleeding. Your knuckles are broken. Your arm is shaking. You do not stop. You do not rest. You do not breathe. You strike and strike and strike. The sound is dull. The sound is dead. It is the sound of bone on stone. It is the sound of will on stone. It is the sound of man on stone.

The fog is thick. The fog is cold. The fog is hungry. The shapes are closer. They are at the edge. They are at the wall. They are reaching. They are touching. They are pulling. They are pulling at you. They are pulling at the door. They are pulling at the line. They are trying to cross. They are trying to break. They are trying to win.

You strike the door. You strike it hard. You strike it with your last strength. You strike it with your last breath. You strike it with your last hope. The door is white. The door is pale. The door is bright. The door is open.

It is not open. It is not broken. It is not moved. It is the same. It is still. It is solid. It is real. It is the boundary. It is the path. It is the line. It is the wall. It is the lock. It is the key. It is the thing that holds. It is the thing that breaks. It is the thing that saves. It is the thing that kills.

You stop. You drop your hand. You fall to your knees. You are on the ground. The cobblestones are cold. The fog is wet. The fog is in your hair. The fog is in your eyes. The fog is in your mouth. You taste it. It tastes like metal. It tastes like blood. It tastes like death.

You look up. The fog is clear. The shapes are gone. The hunger is gone. The weight is gone. The door is white. It is still. It is solid. It is real. It is the boundary. It is the path. It is the line. It is the wall. It is the lock. It is the key. It is the thing that holds. It is the thing that breaks. It is the thing that saves. It is the thing that kills.

You look at your hands. They are red. They are broken. They are bleeding. The blood is on the stone. The blood is on the fog. The blood is on the door. It is dark. It is red. It is warm. It is life. It is death. It is the cost. It is the price. It is the truth.

You look at the street. It is empty. It is quiet. It is still. The town is sleeping. The town is safe. The town is alive. The children are sleeping. The dogs are quiet. The factories are still. The smoke is gone. The fog is gone. The sun is rising. It is pale. It is white. It is bright. It is the same color as the door.

You stand up. Your legs are weak. Your head is spinning. You are tired. You are so tired. You look at the door. It is white. It is still. It is solid. It is real. It is the boundary. It is the path. It is the line. It is the wall. It is the lock. It is the key. It is the thing that holds. It is the thing that breaks. It is the thing that saves. It is the thing that kills.

You turn. You walk away. You walk back down the street. The cobblestones are wet. The air is cold. The air is clean. You walk to the station. The train is there. It is black. It is still. It is waiting. You board the train. You sit in the corner. You put your head in your hands. You close your eyes. You feel the pain. You feel the cold. You feel the weight. You feel the fear. You feel the love. You feel the hate. You feel the life. You feel the death.

The train starts. It moves. It rolls. It goes. It takes you away. It takes you from the town. It takes you from the door. It takes you from the line. It takes you from the edge. It takes you from the boundary. It takes you from the path. It takes you from the wall. It takes you from the lock. It takes you from the key. It takes you from the thing that holds. It takes you from the thing that breaks. It takes you from the thing that saves. It takes you from the thing that kills.

You look out the window. The town is shrinking. The fog is fading. The door is small. It is white. It is bright. It is the last thing you see. It is the first thing you see. It is the only thing that matters. It is the boundary. It is the path. It is the line. It is the wall. It is the lock. It is the key. It is the thing that holds. It is the thing that breaks. It is the thing that saves. It is the thing that kills.

You are alone. You are tired. You are broken. You are free. You are lost. You are found. You are the door. You are the path. You are the line. You are the wall. You are the lock. You are the key. You are the thing that holds. You are the thing that breaks. You are the thing that saves. You are the thing that kills.

The train goes. The fog goes. The light comes. The day breaks. The world turns. The wheel spins. The clock ticks. The heart beats. The breath flows. The life goes on. The death waits. The boundary holds. The path remains. The line is drawn. The wall is strong. The lock is tight. The key is lost. The thing is done. The thing is over. The thing is finished. The thing is complete. The thing is real. The thing is true. The thing is white. The thing is pale. The thing is the door.