The rain smells of rust and old pennies. You know this smell. You have breathed it for weeks. It coats the back of your throat, a gritty film that tastes of defeat. You stand before the gate. It is iron. It is broken. One bar hangs low, dragging against the wet stone like a tongue. You do not fix it. You step over.

The estate is a corpse. The house stands in the center of the dead garden. It is huge. It is white. The paint peels in long strips, revealing the black wood beneath. It looks sick. It looks like you.

You are here to find the truth. Or so you tell yourself. You are here because you are hungry. That is the truth. Your stomach is a hollow drum. You haven't eaten in two days. The coin in your pocket is thin. It won't buy bread. It won't buy heat. It is only enough for a room. A room with a leak in the roof. A room that smells of mold.

You walk up the path. The stones are slick. You slip. You catch yourself on the railing. Your hands are dirty. Your nails are black. You are a dog in the mud. But you walk tall. You have to. You are the investigator. You are the man who sees.

The door is open. You push it. It groans. The sound is human. A scream trapped in wood.

Inside, the air is cold. The dust hangs in the shafts of light. It is thick. It is gray. You can see it in the air. It looks like ash. You look at your hands. They are covered in it. You are made of it.

"Hello," you say. Your voice is small. It is a mouse squeak. It dies in the silence.

No one answers.

You walk into the hall. The wallpaper is yellow. It is stained. There are patterns in it. Flowers. Leaves. They are brown. They are dead. You remember your mother’s wallpaper. It was blue. It was clean. She is dead. You are alone.

You go to the study. The door is closed. You try the handle. It is locked. You look at the key in your hand. It is cold. It is heavy. It is the key to the house. It is the key to the lie.

You turn it. The lock clicks. The sound is sharp. It cuts the air.

You enter.

The room is dark. There is a desk. There are papers. There is a chair. The chair is empty. But it is warm. The leather is soft. Someone was here. Recently.

You look at the papers. They are ledgers. Numbers. Dates. Names. You read them. Your eyes burn. The numbers are wrong. They are always wrong. The debt is not what it seems. The money is not where it is said to be. It is gone. It is in your pocket. It is in your blood.

You laugh. It is a bad laugh. It is a dry rattle. You are not a detective. You are a thief. You have been stealing from this house for months. You have been taking the small coins. The silver buttons. The gold pins. You told yourself it was for evidence. You told yourself it was for the case. But it was for you. It was for your hunger. It was for your shame.

You sit in the chair. The leather creaks. It is the voice of the owner. It is the voice of the house.

"Sit," it says. You do not hear it. You feel it.

You look at the window. The glass is cracked. A spiderweb hangs in the corner. It is perfect. It is a map. It is a web that traps. You are in it.

A sound. A footstep. On the stairs.

You freeze. Your heart is a hammer. It hits your ribs. It hits your lungs. You cannot breathe.

The door opens.

A woman stands there. She is tall. She is thin. Her hair is white. It is wild. It is like the grass in the garden. She is old. She is young. She is both.

She looks at you. Her eyes are gray. They are empty. They are full.

"You," she says. Her voice is low. It is smooth. It is like silk over stone.

"Yes," you say. You do not know what to say. You do not know who you are.

"Who are you?" she asks.

"I am... the man," you say. The words are stupid. They are small.

"You are the rat," she says. She smiles. It is not a smile. It is a crack. "I know you. I have seen you. In the shadows. In the dark. I have seen you take. I have seen you steal. I have seen you lie."

You want to run. Your legs are heavy. They are lead. You cannot move.

"I didn't mean to," you say. "I was hungry."

"Everyone is hungry," she says. "That is not an excuse. That is a fact. You are a fact. You are a stain. You are a crack in the wall."

She steps into the room. She walks to the desk. She picks up a paper. She looks at it. She frowns.

"You have taken too much," she says. "You have broken the balance. You have shattered the glass."

"I will pay," you say. "I will give it back. I will do anything."

"You cannot pay," she says. "You are empty. You have nothing. You are nothing. You are the hole in the bag. You are the leak in the roof. You are the end of the line."

She looks at you. Her eyes are hard. They are cold. They are ice.

"Leave," she says. "Leave this place. Leave me. Leave yourself."

You stand up. Your knees shake. You feel sick. You feel small. You are a child. You are a fool.

You walk to the door. Your hands are shaking. You drop the key. It hits the floor. It rolls. It stops. It is a coin. It is a token. It is a sign.

You do not pick it up. You leave it there. It is hers. It is the house’s. You are not its.

You open the door. The cold air hits your face. It is sharp. It is clean. It is real.

You step out. The rain is harder now. It is a wall. It is a curtain. It hides you. It washes you.

You walk down the path. The stones are wet. You slip again. You fall. You hit the ground. The mud is cold. It is sticky. It clings to you. You are part of it. You are the earth. You are the dirt.

You do not get up. You lie there. You look at the house. The light is on in the study. It is a single eye. It watches you. It sees you. It knows you.

You close your eyes. The rain is in your ears. It is in your mouth. It is in your soul.

You think of the glass. The window. The crack. It is in you. It is in your chest. It is in your mind. You are broken. You are shattered. You are pieces.

You think of the woman. Her eyes. Her voice. She is not angry. She is sad. She is tired. She is alone. Like you. She is the house. You are the rot.

You think of the money. The small coins. The silver buttons. They are in your pocket. They are heavy. They are hot. They are poison.

You take them out. One by one. You drop them. They clink. They sing. They are sad. They are lost.

You throw them into the rain. They splash. They vanish. They are gone.

You are empty. You are light. You are free.

No. You are not free. You are still hungry. You are still cold. You are still alone.

You stand up. You brush the mud from your clothes. It is useless. It is everywhere. You are mud. You are the house. You are the crack.

You walk to the gate. The iron bar is still broken. You do not fix it. You step over.

You are outside. The city is dark. The streets are wet. The lights are blurred. They are stars. They are eyes. They are watching.

You walk. You have no destination. You have no plan. You have no name. You are no one. You are a ghost. You are a shadow.

You pass a bakery. The smell of bread is strong. It is sweet. It is warm. It is life. You stop. You look in the window. The baker is asleep. The bread is hot. It is golden. It is perfect.

You could take it. You could steal it. You are good at it. You are fast. You are quiet.

You look at your hands. They are clean. They are pale. They are empty.

You turn away. You walk on.

You do not steal. You do not take. You leave it. You let it go.

It is a choice. It is a small choice. It is a big choice. It is the only choice.

You are not a thief. You are a man. You are a human. You are a soul.

You walk to the bridge. The river is black. It is moving. It is fast. It is cold.

You stand on the edge. The wind blows. It pulls at you. It wants you. It wants to take you.

You look down. The water is deep. It is dark. It is the end.

You could jump. You could fall. You could sink. You could be gone.

You look at your reflection. It is distorted. It is broken. It is a stranger.

You do not jump. You step back.

You are alive. You are here. You are now.

You walk to the shelter. It is a box. It is cold. It is wet. It is yours.

You sit on the floor. You wrap your coat around yourself. It is thin. It is old. It is yours.

You close your eyes. The rain continues. It is a drum. It is a song. It is a prayer.

You breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

You are here. You are real. You are you.

The house is far away. The woman is far away. The past is far away.

You are in the present. You are in the moment. You are in the rain.

You are broken. You are whole. You are both.

You are the atlas. You are the map. You are the territory.

You are the wistful thing. You are the sad thing. You are the beautiful thing.

You are alive.

The rain stops. The sky is gray. The sun is not there. The light is soft. It is weak. It is true.

You open your eyes. The world is still there. It is dirty. It is broken. It is real.

You stand up. Your legs are strong. They are tired. They are yours.

You walk. You have no destination. You have no plan. You have no name.

But you have a choice. You have a will. You have a self.

You walk into the city. You walk into the light. You walk into the life.

You are here.

You are here.

You are here.