The soup was boiling over.

Silas stirred. The wooden spoon scraped the bottom. It sounded like a bone dragging on stone. He did not look up. He never looked up.

"Thick," he said. "It is too thick."

The woman across the table spat into her hand. She wiped her mouth with a rag. "It is thin," she lied. "Add more water."

Silas nodded. He reached for the kettle. His hands trembled. Not from cold. From age. The knuckles were swollen. The nails were yellow. He poured. The water hissed.

"Who is this?" The woman pointed at him. Her finger was red. "Why is he here?"

Silas did not answer. He watched the steam rise. It curled. It vanished.

"Answer me."

"He is the cook," a voice said. It came from the shadows. A man in black. His face was hidden. "Silas. He makes the broth."

"Broth?" The woman laughed. "For whom?"

"For the one who must be fed."

"Feed him?" She stood up. The chair scraped back. "No. Not him. Not that thing."

Silas stopped stirring. He looked at her. His eyes were dark. They were deep. He saw her fear. He knew it well. He had worn it for ten years.

"Sit down," Silas said. His voice was low. It was rough. Like gravel.

"Who are you to command me?"

"I am the spoon," he said. "I am the bowl. I am the heat."

The woman stared. The black man stepped forward. He held a staff. It was wood. It was old.

"The Master is waiting," the black man said. "The time is now."

Silas turned. He picked up the pot. The handle was hot. He did not feel it. He carried it. He walked out of the kitchen. The door was heavy. He pushed it open.

The hall was long. The floor was stone. It was cold. Silas’s feet made no sound. He was barefoot. He had been barefoot for years.

They walked. The woman followed. She whispered. She muttered. She cursed.

"Where are we going?"

"To the center," the black man said.

"What center?"

"The eye."

Silas did not care. He cared for the soup. He cared for the consistency. If it was too thick, it would stick. If it was too thin, it would cool. It had to be right. It had to be perfect.

They came to a door. It was iron. It was round. It had no handle. Silas placed the pot on the ground. He placed his hand on the metal.

"Open," he said.

The door did not move.

"Force it," the woman said. "Break it."

Silas shook his head. "No force. Only heat."

He closed his eyes. He thought of his mother. She had been a baker. She had hands like dough. Soft. White. She had died when he was old. She had said, "Do not fight the fire, Silas. Be the fire."

He did not remember if she had said that. But he felt it. He felt the heat in his chest. It spread. It moved to his arms. It moved to his hands.

The iron door glowed. It turned red. Then orange. Then white.

The metal bent. It sighed. It opened.

Inside, there was a room. It was small. There was a table. On the table, there was a bowl. The bowl was empty.

A figure sat in the chair. It was wrapped in cloth. The face was hidden.

"Feed him," the black man said.

Silas lifted the pot. He poured. The soup flowed. It was gold. It shone. It smelled of herbs. It smelled of life.

The figure moved. The cloth fell.

It was a child.

The child was small. It was pale. Its eyes were wide. It opened its mouth.

Silas poured. The child drank. It did not chew. It swallowed. It drank all of it.

When the bowl was empty, the child looked up.

"More," the child said.

Silas smiled. He went to the pot. He reached in. He pulled out a spoon. He scraped the bottom. There was nothing left.

"No more," Silas said.

The child frowned. It looked at the woman. It looked at the black man. It looked at Silas.

"Where is the rest?" the child asked.

Silas put the spoon in his mouth. He chewed. He tasted the wood. He tasted the oil. He tasted the old soup.

"The rest is here," Silas said.

The child pointed at Silas. "You ate it?"

"Yes."

"You are the soup?"

"Yes."

The child laughed. It was a dry laugh. Like leaves in the wind.

"You are a fool," the child said.

Silas felt a pain. It was in his throat. It was sharp. It was bright.

"I am the vessel," Silas said. "I am the fuel."

"No," the child said. "You are the waste."

The black man stepped forward. He raised his staff.

"Silas," the black man said. "You have failed."

Silas looked at the bowl. It was clean. It was empty.

"I fed him," Silas said.

"You fed yourself," the black man said. "He is still hungry. The cycle is broken."

Silas looked at the child. The child was crying. Not from pain. From anger.

"I am hungry," the child said.

Silas felt the heat in his chest again. It was stronger now. It was burning. He wanted to give it. He wanted to pour himself out. He wanted to be the soup. He wanted to be the food.

But he was the spoon. He was the tool. He was not the meal.

"Take him," the black man said. He pointed at the child. "Take him away."

Two other men appeared. They grabbed the child. The child screamed. It kicked. It bit.

Silas did not move. He watched. He held the pot. The pot was cold now.

"Silas," the woman said. Her voice was soft. "What did you do?"

Silas looked at her. He saw her eyes. They were full of pity. He hated pity. Pity was a lie.

"I cooked," Silas said.

"You are a monster," she said.

"I am a man," Silas said. "I am a man who is tired."

The black man turned to Silas. He raised the staff.

"Die," the black man said.

Silas closed his eyes. He waited. He felt the blow coming. He felt the weight. He felt the end.

But the blow did not come.

Silas opened his eyes. The black man was gone. The woman was gone. The men were gone.

He was alone.

The room was dark. The pot was on the floor. The bowl was on the table.

Silas walked to the table. He picked up the bowl. It was empty. He held it to his face. He smelled it. It smelled of nothing.

He put the bowl down. He picked up the spoon. He put it in his mouth. He chewed.

He walked to the door. The iron door was closed. He pushed it. It did not move.

He pulled it. It did not move.

He kicked it. It did not move.

He hit it. He hit it until his hand bled. He hit it until his voice was gone.

"Open," he said.

Nothing.

"Open," he screamed.

Nothing.

He sat down. He leaned against the wall. He looked at his hands. They were red. They were shaking.

He remembered his mother. She had been soft. She had been white. She had died.

He remembered the soup. It had been gold. It had been hot.

He remembered the child. It had been hungry. It had been angry.

He was the soup. He was the fuel. He was the waste.

He closed his eyes. He felt the heat in his chest. It was fading. It was cooling.

He was tired. He was so tired.

He lay down on the floor. The stone was cold. He did not feel it.

He waited.

Nothing came.

The dark was deep. The dark was thick.

He was the spoon.

He was the bowl.

He was the heat.

And then, he was nothing.

The room was silent. The pot was cold. The bowl was empty.

In the corner, a shadow moved. It was small. It was pale.

It crawled out. It looked at the body. It looked at the pot.

It reached for the spoon. It put it in its mouth. It chewed.

It smiled.

It was hungry.