The house breathes.

You can hear it.

It is a wet, rattling sound.

Like old pipes.

Like lungs clearing.

You are standing in the kitchen.

Your hands are stained.

You are a clockmaker.

You fix time for others.

But you do not know your own.

The clock on the wall ticks.

It is loud.

It is wrong.

It beats faster than a heart should.

Eleanor is at the table.

She is eating soup.

The steam rises.

It curls like a ghost.

You watch her.

She does not look up.

She never looks up anymore.

She is beautiful.

She is fading.

The house is alive.

It has always been alive.

You bought it for the light.

The light in the morning.

The way it hits the floorboards.

Now the light is thick.

It is yellow.

It tastes like copper.

You touch the counter.

It is warm.

It pulses.

You pull your hand back.

Your skin tingles.

You are afraid.

You are not afraid.

You are tired.

You built this life.

You built it brick by brick.

You built it tick by tick.

You thought you could buy safety.

You thought you could buy silence.

The house bought you.

It is a trap.

But a gentle trap.

A velvet trap.

You remember the day you moved in.

The movers were heavy.

They carried the clocks.

They carried the boxes.

They carried your life.

The house accepted them.

The house accepted you.

It did not ask for permission.

It simply took.

Now it is time to pay.

The clocks are all running.

But they are not keeping time.

They are counting down.

To what?

You do not know.

Eleanor puts down her spoon.

She looks at you.

Her eyes are dark.

They are wet.

She smiles.

It is a small smile.

It is sad.

You want to speak.

You cannot.

Your throat is tight.

The air is thick.

It presses against your chest.

You are a craftsman.

You value precision.

You value order.

The house is chaos.

The house is wild.

It grows.

The vines on the wall are moving.

You can see them.

They creep across the wallpaper.

They wrap around the doorknobs.

They enter the cracks.

You try to wipe them away.

Your cloth is black.

The marks do not fade.

They spread.

You look at your hands.

They are shaking.

You are a man of iron.

You are a man of steel.

But you are breaking.

The house is eating you.

It is eating your fear.

It is eating your love.

It is eating your life.

You go to the workshop.

The door creaks.

It sounds like a sigh.

The room is full of clocks.

Hundreds of them.

They all tick.

They do not agree.

They argue.

They scream.

You sit at your bench.

You pick up a tool.

Your hand is steady.

You must fix something.

You must fix the big clock.

The grandfather clock.

It is the heart of the house.

You open the case.

The gears are black.

They are oily.

They are moving wrong.

You try to adjust them.

They resist.

They pull against you.

You feel a pain in your wrist.

You feel a pain in your mind.

You are losing control.

You are losing yourself.

You think of Eleanor.

You think of her face.

You think of her smile.

You love her.

You love her so much.

It hurts.

It burns.

It consumes you.

You want to save her.

You want to save yourself.

You want to save the house.

But you cannot save it.

The house is not yours.

You are the house.

The house is you.

The walls are your skin.

The floor is your bone.

The roof is your skull.

You are the monster.

You are the ghost.

You are the thing that lives in the dark.

You drop the tool.

It clatters on the floor.

The sound echoes.

It echoes forever.

You stand up.

You walk out of the workshop.

The hallway is long.

The shadows are deep.

You walk to the bedroom.

Eleanor is there.

She is lying in bed.

She is breathing.

She is sleeping.

Or she is dead.

You do not know.

You sit on the edge of the bed.

You touch her face.

It is cold.

It is still.

You wait for a breath.

You wait for a sign.

Nothing comes.

The house ticks.

The house breathes.

The house waits.

You look at the window.

The night is dark.

The stars are out.

They are far away.

They are cold.

They are indifferent.

You look at your hands.

They are clean.

The stains are gone.

The dirt is gone.

The blood is gone.

You are empty.

You are hollow.

You are free.

But freedom is a heavy thing.

Freedom is a cold thing.

Freedom is a lonely thing.

You stand up.

You walk to the door.

You open it.

The night air hits your face.

It is sharp.

It is clean.

It is real.

You step outside.

The grass is cold.

The dirt is wet.

You walk to the tree.

The old oak.

It is tall.

It is strong.

It is alive.

You lean against it.

You feel its bark.

It is rough.

It is hard.

It is real.

You close your eyes.

You listen.

You hear the wind.

You hear the leaves.

You hear the world.

You do not hear the house.

You do not hear the clocks.

You do not hear the breathing.

You are alone.

You are free.

But you are alone.

The house is behind you.

It stands in the dark.

It watches you.

It waits for you.

It knows you cannot stay away.

It knows you will come back.

It knows you are part of it.

It knows you are the heart.

It knows you are the soul.

It knows you are the life.

You turn around.

You look at the house.

The lights are on.

The windows are bright.

The curtains move.

Someone is there.

You know who it is.

It is not Eleanor.

It is you.

It is the you that stayed.

It is the you that fed.

It is the you that grew.

You are two things now.

You are the man.

You are the house.

You are the monster.

You are the maker.

You are the made.

You are the trap.

You are the prey.

You walk back to the door.

The door is open.

It is waiting for you.

It is hungry.

It is full.

It is empty.

You step inside.

The air is warm.

The air is sweet.

The air is wrong.

You feel the floor under your feet.

It is soft.

It is alive.

It is you.

You go to the kitchen.

The clock is ticking.

It is loud.

It is wrong.

It beats faster than a heart should.

You sit at the table.

You pick up a spoon.

You eat the soup.

It is hot.

It is good.

It is real.

You are home.

You are safe.

You are free.

But you are alone.

The house breathes.

You breathe with it.

The clocks tick.

You tick with them.

The night is long.

The night is dark.

The night is yours.

You are the master.

You are the servant.

You are the lord.

You are the slave.

You are the key.

You are the lock.

You are the door.

You are the threshold.

You are the distance.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

You are the story.

You are the silence.

You are the sound.

You are the life.

You are the death.

You are the breath.

You are the house.

The house is you.

The house is free.

The house is alone.

The house is real.

The house is here.

The house is now.

The house is everything.

The house is nothing.

The house is you.