The train shudders to a halt in the grey throat of the station. You step out. The air tastes of iron and wet wool. It is November. The town of Harrowgate is buried under a shroud of coal smoke and low fog. You are small. You are twelve. You carry a satchel that weighs too much for your shoulders. You are here to find work. You are here because the farm is dead. You are here because the cough has taken your lungs.

You walk. Your boots slap the cobblestones. The sound is sharp. It echoes off the brick walls. The buildings lean in. They are tired. The mortar is crumbling. The paint peels like dead skin. This is the house. Number 42. The window is dark. The door is ajar. You push it. It groans. The smell hits you. Dust. Old paper. Decay.

You stand in the hallway. The floorboards creak under your weight. You look around. There is a staircase. It spirals up into the dark. There is a clock on the wall. It is stopped. The hands point to four and ten. You know this time. You have seen it before. In your dreams. In the fever.

You go up. The steps are narrow. Your heart beats fast. It is a bird in your chest. It wants to fly. It cannot. You reach the top. There is a room. The door is open. You enter.

The room is cold. A single window faces the street. The glass is cracked. A spider web hangs in the corner. There is a desk. It is oak. It is heavy. It is worn. The surface is scratched. There are grooves in the wood. Deep ones. You touch them. Your finger traces the lines. They are smooth. They are soft. They are old.

You sit. The chair squeaks. You look at the desk. You do not know why you are here. You do not know why you feel this pull. It is not love. It is not hatred. It is something else. It is a hunger. A deep, quiet hunger.

You take out a notebook. It is small. It is blue. You open it. You write. The ink is black. The pen scratches the paper. You write the date. You write the time. You write your name. Thomas. Just Thomas. No last name. You have no last name. You are alone.

You look out the window. The street is empty. A cat moves in the shadow. It is black. It is thin. It looks at you. It does not blink. It watches. You watch back. It disappears.

You think of the farm. The fields were green. Then they were brown. Then they were grey. The dust settled. The crops died. The cows died. The dog died. You watched them die. You did not cry. You were too tired to cry. You only breathed. And the breath came up. It tasted of blood.

The doctor said you had a weak heart. He said it was a ticking clock. He said you had to rest. He said you had to stop working. You did not stop. You worked. You pulled the weeds. You fixed the fence. You fed the animals. You breathed through the pain. You ignored the tick.

Now you are here. In Harrowgate. In the house. At the desk.

You look at the scratches on the desk. You count them. One. Two. Three. Ten. One hundred. You do not stop. You count until the numbers blur. You count until your eyes water. You count until the room spins.

A shadow falls across the floor. You do not look up. You know who it is. You do not turn. You write. You write faster. The pen moves. The ink flows. You write about the rain. You write about the mud. You write about the silence.

The person stands behind you. They are still. They are quiet. You feel their presence. It is heavy. It is warm. It is close. You do not move. You do not breathe. You continue to write.

You write about the machine. The distant machine. The one that hums in the valley. The one that never stops. The one that eats the sound. The one that takes the breath. You know it is real. You have heard it. In the night. In the dark. It is low. It is deep. It is in your bones.

The person moves. They step forward. Their foot hits the floor. It is a soft sound. It is a tap. You stop writing. You close the notebook. You do not turn. You feel the heat of their body. It is close. Too close.

You speak. Your voice is thin. It is dry. You say, You are here.

The person does not answer. They do not move. They stand. They watch. They wait.

You open your eyes. You look at the desk. The scratches are still there. They are deeper now. They are fresh. You touch them again. The wood is warm. It is alive.

You realize. You are not the visitor. You are the one who was here before. You are the one who made the marks. You are the one who counted. You are the one who died at this desk.

The truth is cold. It cuts you. It is a knife in the gut. You are not Thomas. You are the ghost. You are the memory. You are the pattern. You are the loop.

You look at the door. The door is closed. You did not close it. You did not open it. It was always closed. You are trapped. You have always been trapped.

You look at the window. The glass is cracked. The crack is shaped like a branch. It is shaped like a vein. It is shaped like a road. You look down the road. It goes to the farm. It goes to the grave. It goes to the dust.

You are the dust. You are the decay. You are the wear.

The person behind you shifts. You feel the movement. It is a sigh. It is a release. It is a letting go.

You turn.

It is a man. He is old. His face is pale. His eyes are red. He wears a coat. It is grey. It is wet. He looks at you. He does not see you. He looks through you. He sees the desk. He sees the scratches. He sees the notebook.

He picks up the notebook. He opens it. He reads. His lips move. He reads your words. He reads your name. He reads the date.

He looks up. He looks at the clock. The clock is still stopped. The hands point to four and ten.

He smiles. It is a sad smile. It is a tired smile. It is a knowing smile.

He puts the notebook down. He picks up the pen. He dips it in the ink. He does not write. He holds the pen. He looks at the desk. He looks at the scratches.

He touches them. His finger traces the lines. It is the same motion. It is the same path. It is the same loop.

He sits down. He sits in your chair. The chair squeaks. He leans forward. He rests his elbows on the desk. He puts his head in his hands.

He breathes. It is a hard breath. It is a painful breath. It is the breath of a man who knows he is dying.

He begins to count. One. Two. Three.

You watch. You are still there. You are the shadow. You are the whisper. You are the dust.

You see the room change. The light shifts. The fog thickens. The machine hums louder. It is in the walls. It is in the floor. It is in the air. It is in him.

You understand. The machine is not outside. The machine is inside. It is the heart. It is the lungs. It is the time. It is the decay. It is the wear.

You cannot escape. You have never escaped. You are part of it. You are the gear. You are the oil. You are the rust.

The man stops counting. He looks up. He sees you. He does not flinch. He does not scream. He nods. It is a small nod. It is a greeting. It is an acceptance.

He picks up the pen. He writes. He writes your name. He writes the date. He writes the time.

He closes the notebook. He stands up. He walks to the door. He opens it. The cold air rushes in. It is sharp. It is bitter.

He steps out. The door closes. The latch clicks.

You are alone. You are in the room. You are at the desk.

You look at the clock. The hands move. They tick. They tock. They move forward.

You look at the window. The fog is lifting. The sun is coming up. It is weak. It is pale. It is grey.

You feel the wear. It is in your bones. It is in your soul. It is in the wood of the desk.

You are the machine. You are the distant machine. You are the one that hums. You are the one that eats the sound.

You sit. You pick up the pen. You open the notebook. You write.

The ink is black. The pen scratches.

You are here. You are waiting. You are counting.

The train will come. The boy will step out. The boy will walk. The boy will climb the stairs. The boy will sit.

The loop is complete. The loop is unbroken. The loop is eternal.

You breathe. The breath is shallow. The breath is short. The breath is the last.

The fog rolls in. The light fades. The clock ticks.

You are the wear. You are the dust. You are the silence.

You are the machine.