The rain hits the tin roof like a handful of gravel. You are running. Your boots slap the muddy path. Mud splatters your trousers. You do not care. You care about the house. The house is a beast of brick and slate. It stands against the grey sky. It stands against you.

Your friend, Silas, is ahead. He runs faster. His coat is tattered. His face is pale. He looks back. His eyes are wide. He points to the door.

"Keep up," he says. His voice is thin. The wind steals it.

You push harder. Your lungs burn. The air tastes of iron and wet earth. This is the year of the strike. The mills are closed. The men are hungry. The women are angry. But you are not a man. You are not a woman. You are a boy. You are fifteen. You are nothing.

The house belongs to Mr. Thorne. It is a place of glass and gold. It is a place where the light does not bend. It is a place where the shadows do not reach. You have seen it from the fence. You have watched the servants come and go. You have watched the dogs. You have watched the lights flicker on at dusk. You have wanted to be inside. You have wanted to be clean.

Silas stops at the gate. The iron is rusted. The lock is broken. A trick. A small trick. You have seen the lock for years. You know the weakness. You kick the latch. It gives. You step inside.

The garden is dead. The roses are black. The leaves are wet. The path leads to the porch. The porch is high. The steps are steep. You climb them. Your legs shake. Silas waits. He leans against the doorframe. He looks at you. He smiles. It is a cruel smile.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

You do not answer. You push the door. It creaks. The sound is loud. It is a scream in the silence.

Inside, the air is still. It is warm. It smells of wax and old paper. There are no lights. The darkness is thick. It presses against your skin. You feel eyes on you. You feel the weight of the place.

"Turn on the lamp," Silas whispers.

You fumble for the switch. Your fingers are cold. You find it. You flip it. Light floods the room.

The drawing room is empty. The chairs are covered in cloth. The dust lies in layers. The fireplace is cold. The mantle is bare. There is a mirror on the wall. It is large. It is tall. It is framed in dark wood.

You look at the mirror.

Your face is there. It is small. It is dirty. Your hair is matted. Your eyes are wild. You see a ghost. You see a thief. You see a boy who is not welcome.

Silas looks at the mirror too. He does not look at you. He looks at his reflection. He tilts his head. He studies his own face. He touches his cheek.

"Do you see it?" he asks.

"See what?" you say.

"The mark," he says.

You look again. You see your own face. You see your own eyes. You do not see a mark. You do not see anything special. You are just a boy. You are just dirt.

"What mark?" you ask.

Silas turns to you. His face is hard. His eyes are cold.

"Your mark," he says. "The one that keeps you here."

You step back. Your heart beats fast. You look at the mirror. You look at Silas. You look at the mirror again.

"I don't have a mark," you say.

"You do," Silas says. "We all do. But yours is the one that binds the house."

The words hang in the air. They are heavy. They are false. You know they are false. But you do not know why. You feel a pull. You feel a tug. It is in your chest. It is in your bones.

"Why?" you ask.

Silas laughs. It is a dry sound. Like dead leaves skittering.

"Because you want it," he says. "Because you want to be part of it. You want to be clean. You want to be safe. You want to be in this house. That is your mark. Your hunger. It is the chain."

You look at the mirror. Your reflection stares back. It does not move. It does not blink. It is still.

"I don't want it," you say.

"You do," Silas says. "You have always wanted it. Since you were a child. Since you first saw the lights. Since you first watched the dogs. You have wanted to be inside. That is the curse. That is the loop."

The room feels smaller. The walls seem to move. The light flickers. The shadows lengthen. You feel trapped. You feel watched. You feel the weight of the years. You feel the weight of the silence.

"Let me go," you say.

"Not yet," Silas says. "We are not done."

He walks to the window. The glass is dirty. The rain streaks the view. He looks out. He does not look at you.

"Open the door," he says.

"Which door?"

"The one at the end of the hall."

You look down the hallway. It is dark. It is long. It stretches into the black. You do not want to go there. Your feet are rooted.

"Go," Silas says.

You move. You walk down the hall. The floorboards creak. The air is colder here. It smells of damp. It smells of decay. You pass a painting. It is a portrait of a woman. She is old. Her eyes are closed. She looks peaceful. She looks dead.

You pass another door. It is closed. You do not open it. You keep walking. The end of the hall is far. It is closer. The darkness is thicker. You feel a hand on your shoulder.

You turn.

Silas is there. He is close. His face is in the shadow. You cannot see his eyes.

"You are afraid," he says.

"I am not afraid," you lie.

"You are," he says. "You are afraid of what is in the room. You are afraid of what you will find."

"What is in the room?"

"Yourself," he says.

The words hit you. They are sharp. They are true. You stop. You look at him. He is smiling. It is a sad smile.

"Open it," he says.

You look at the door. It is dark wood. It is old. The handle is brass. It is tarnished. You reach out. Your hand trembles. You touch the handle. It is cold.

You turn it.

The door swings open.

The room is small. It is square. There are no windows. There is a single lamp on the table. It is lit. The light is yellow. It is weak.

In the center of the room is a chair. It is wooden. It is high-backed. It is empty.

On the chair is a book. It is thick. It is black. The cover is leather. It is worn.

You step into the room. The door closes behind you. You hear the lock click.

Silas is not there.

You are alone.

You walk to the chair. You look at the book. You do not touch it. You look at the wall. There is a mirror. It is small. It is round. It is framed in silver.

You look in the mirror.

You see your face. But it is not your face. It is older. It is grey. It is tired. It is the face of a man who has lived a long life. It is the face of a man who has been in this house for a hundred years.

You look at the book. You open it.

The pages are blank.

You look back at the mirror. The man in the mirror is smiling.

"You are the mark," the man says. His voice is yours. But it is deeper. It is older.

"I am not," you say.

"You are," the man says. "You have always been. You are the hunger. You are the wanting. You are the boy who wants to be inside. And because you want it, you are here. And because you are here, you will stay. And because you stay, the house lives. This is the loop. This is the cycle. You cannot escape. You can only accept."

You close the book. You look at the mirror. You see the boy. You see the man. You see the house.

You understand.

You are not a visitor. You are the tenant. You are the owner. You are the prisoner.

You turn to the door. You try the handle. It is locked.

You look at the window. There is no window.

You look at the ceiling. It is low. It is dark.

You sit on the chair. The wood is hard. It is cold.

You open the book again. The pages are still blank.

You wait.

The rain hits the roof. It sounds like gravel. It sounds like time. It sounds like the end.

You do not cry. You do not shout. You do not run.

You sit.

You wait.

The light flickers.

The mirror watches.

You are still.

You are home.