You wear the coat. It is old. The wool is thin. You feel the cold. It seeps in. It finds the gaps. You are on the train. The wheels click. Click. Click. A rhythm. A heartbeat. Not yours. It is the engine’s. It is the machine’s. You look down. The buttons are loose. One hangs by a thread. You do not pull it. You do not fix it. You let it dangle. It swings. In and out. Like a pendulum. Like a warning.

The man across the aisle watches you. He is large. His face is red. He smells of tobacco and iron. He is Mr. Thorne. You know his name. You know his title. He is the owner of the mill. He is the owner of your father. He is the owner of you.

"Miss Holloway," he says. His voice is low. It rumbles. It shakes the glass in the cup. "You are going to the city. Why?"

You look at him. You do not blink. "For work," you say.

"Work?" He laughs. It is a dry sound. Like dead leaves. "There is no work for you in the city. There is only the factory. There is only the machine. You will break. You will wear out. Like this coat."

He points at you. His finger is thick. It is red. "You are wasting it. The coat. The life. You are letting it fray."

You touch the sleeve. The fabric is rough. It scratches your palm. You remember the night your father died. He was in the mill. The gears took him. They took his hand. Then his arm. Then the rest. He screamed. You heard it. You were in the yard. The smoke was thick. It was black. It covered the moon. You ran. You ran to the door. But the door was locked. Mr. Thorne stood there. He held the key. He held the light. He looked at you. He did not open the door. He just looked.

Now you are in the train. You are in the cage. The window is dark. You see your reflection. Your eyes are hollow. Your lips are dry. You are young. You are old. You are the same.

The train stops. The brakes squeal. It is a scream. It is high. It is sharp. It cuts the air. You jump. You stand. You walk to the door. The air is cold. It bites your skin. It is clean. It is sharp. You step out.

The platform is empty. The lamps are yellow. They flicker. They buzz. They are weak. You walk away. You walk into the night. The street is wet. The puddles reflect the light. You see your face in the water. It is broken. It is split. You walk on.

You find the room. It is above a shop. The stairs are narrow. The steps creak. You climb. You climb. Your legs burn. Your lungs ache. You reach the top. The door is open. You go in.

The room is small. The bed is hard. The sheets are white. They are stiff. You sit down. You take off the coat. You hold it. It is heavy. It is warm. It is your skin. It is your body. You fold it. You place it on the chair. You look at it. It looks back. It has no face. It has no eyes. But it sees. It knows.

You lie down. You close your eyes. You sleep.

You wake. The light is gray. The sun is low. It is morning. You stand. You dress. You put on the coat. The buttons catch. They hang. You walk out. You walk to the street. The street is busy. People move. They are fast. They are loud. They do not see you. You are invisible. You are ghost. You are shadow.

You go to the factory. It is near. The smoke is thick. It is gray. It hangs low. It chokes the trees. You enter. The door is heavy. It is iron. It is cold. You walk in. The noise is loud. It is a roar. It is a growl. The machines are huge. They are black. They are wet. They are alive. They move. They shake. They breathe.

You see him. Mr. Thorne. He is on the platform. He stands by the machine. He watches the workers. They are bent. They are broken. They are small. You walk past. He sees you. He smiles. It is a thin smile. It is a cold smile.

"Miss Holloway," he says. He does not shout. He does not need to. His voice cuts the air. It is a blade. "You are back. I thought you ran. I thought you hid."

You stop. You turn. You look at him. You do not bow. You do not look down. You look into his eyes. They are dark. They are deep. They are empty.

"I am here for work," you say. Your voice is steady. It is quiet. It is strong.

"Work," he repeats. He steps down. He walks toward you. The workers stop. The machines stop. The noise dies. The silence is loud. It is heavy. It presses on your chest. "You think you can work? You think you can survive? You are soft. You are weak. You will die. You will die like your father. You will die in the machine. And I will not care. I will not open the door. I will let you burn. I will let you break."

You feel the fear. It is cold. It is sharp. It is in your blood. But you do not move. You do not step back. You look at him. You see the fear in his eyes. He is afraid. He is afraid of you. He is afraid of the truth.

"I am not afraid," you say.

He laughs. He slaps your cheek. The sound is loud. It is a crack. It is a break. Your head turns. Your cheek burns. It stings. It swells. You taste blood. It is salty. It is red. You spit it out. You look at him. You do not cry. You do not scream. You stand still. You are a rock. You are stone.

"Good," he says. He smiles. He turns. He walks away. He is large. He is tall. He is power. He is the master.

You walk to the machine. You stand in front of it. It is huge. It is black. It is cold. You touch it. The metal is wet. It is cold. It is alive. You put your hand on the belt. The belt moves. It is fast. It is smooth. It is deadly.

You close your eyes. You think of your father. You think of his hand. You think of his scream. You think of the smoke. You think of the door. You think of the key. You think of Mr. Thorne. You think of the coat.

You open your eyes. You look at the belt. You see the gap. It is small. It is dark. It is deep. You step forward. You step into the gap. The belt moves. It pulls you. It pulls you in. The noise is loud. It is a roar. It is a scream. It is a song.

You feel the pain. It is hot. It is sharp. It is bright. You feel the tear. It is cold. It is wet. It is red. You feel the pull. It is strong. It is hard. It is final.

You look up. You see Mr. Thorne. He is far away. He is small. He is pale. He is shaking. He is screaming. He is crying. He is broken.

You look at your hands. They are gone. You look at your face. It is gone. You look at the coat. It is torn. It is ripped. It is broken. It is free.

The machine stops. The noise dies. The silence is loud. The air is still. The smoke is thick. The light is gray.

You are gone. You are dead. You are free.

The workers stand. They look at the machine. They look at the blood. They look at the pieces. They do not speak. They do not move. They are afraid. They are silent. They are broken.

Mr. Thorne runs. He runs to the door. He opens it. He runs out. He runs into the street. He runs into the night. He runs into the dark. He runs into the smoke. He runs into the void.

The coat is on the floor. It is torn. It is ripped. It is broken. It is free. It is white. It is clean. It is pure. It is the meridian. It is the line. It is the end. It is the start. It is the same. It is the wheel. It is the turn. It is the circle. It is the loop. It is the fate. It is the truth.

You are gone. You are dead. You are free. You are here. You are there. You are everywhere. You are nowhere. You are the coat. You are the thread. You are the needle. You are the stitch. You are the tear. You are the mend. You are the wear. You are the break. You are the fix. You are the loop. You are the end. You are the start. You are the same. You are the wheel. You are the turn. You are the circle. You are the loop. You are the fate. You are the truth. You are the pale meridian. You are the line. You are the end. You are the start. You are the same. You are the wheel. You are the turn. You are the circle. You are the loop. You are the fate. You are the truth.