The mill smells of wet wool and rust.

You are twelve.

Your hands are red.

The water is cold.

Father is gone.

He left at dawn.

He took the horse.

He took the money.

He left you here.

In the spinning room.

The shutters are closed.

The wind whistles.

It sounds like a toothache.

You sit on the bench.

The bobbins spin.

Click. Click. Click.

They are fast.

They are angry.

You watch them.

They are like eyes.

They do not blink.

The room is small.

The walls are brick.

The bricks are damp.

You feel the damp.

It is in your bones.

You are hungry.

Your stomach hurts.

It is a hollow pain.

It eats you.

You think of the fire.

The fire is out.

You have no coal.

You have no wood.

You have no bread.

You have no milk.

You have no friend.

You have only the sound.

Click. Click. Click.

The machine is alive.

It eats the yarn.

It spits out the thread.

It does not stop.

It does not care.

You are small.

The machine is big.

You are weak.

The machine is strong.

You must feed it.

Or it will break.

If it breaks, you starve.

If you starve, you die.

You stand up.

Your knees ache.

You walk to the machine.

The floor is slick.

You slip.

You catch the frame.

The metal is cold.

It bites your skin.

You pull the lever.

The machine slows.

You load the wool.

It is heavy.

It is grey.

It looks like ash.

You stuff it in.

The machine groans.

It speeds up.

Click. Click. Click.

You are tired.

You are afraid.

The dark comes.

The shutters let in a sliver of light.

It is blue.

It is thin.

You see your hands.

They are shaking.

You see your face.

It is pale.

It is not your face.

It is a mask.

You take it off.

You are just a child.

You are just a body.

You are just pain.

You want to run.

You want to cry.

You want to scream.

But you cannot.

The machine listens.

If you scream, it stops.

If it stops, you die.

So you are quiet.

You are still.

You are stone.

The hours pass.

The light changes.

It turns gold.

Then it turns red.

Then it is black.

The dark is total.

The dark is thick.

You breathe.

Your breath fogs.

You see nothing.

You hear only the click.

Click. Click. Click.

It is a heartbeat.

It is your heartbeat.

You are one with it.

You are part of it.

You are the thread.

You are the bobbin.

You are the wheel.

You are the mill.

You are the noise.

You are the cold.

You are the fear.

You are the hunger.

You are the end.

Then, a sound.

A knock.

It is soft.

It is distant.

You freeze.

Your heart stops.

You hold your breath.

The knock comes again.

Tap. Tap.

It is at the door.

The heavy oak door.

The door that is locked.

Who is it?

No one comes here.

No one cares.

Father is gone.

The world is gone.

It is a ghost.

It is a trick.

You do not move.

You do not breathe.

The machine clicks.

Click. Click. Click.

The knock comes again.

Louder.

Faster.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It is a child’s hand.

It is small.

It is weak.

It is desperate.

You step back.

Your feet are bare.

The floor is ice.

You shiver.

The light from the crack under the door grows.

It is yellow.

It is warm.

It feels like sun.

You want to open it.

You want to scream.

You want to live.

But you remember.

The wool.

The machine.

The debt.

If you open the door, you lose.

If you lose, you die.

You must stay.

You must work.

You must be strong.

You turn away.

You face the machine.

You lift the lever.

The machine roars.

It drowns the knock.

Click. Click. Click.

The knocking stops.

The silence returns.

It is heavier now.

It is a stone.

It sits on your chest.

You breathe.

It hurts.

You work.

You feed the beast.

The light returns.

It is grey.

It is morning.

The door is open.

It was not a child.

It was the wind.

The wind blew a twig.

The twig tapped the wood.

It was nothing.

It was air.

It was hope.

And hope is a lie.

You look at the door.

The gap is small.

You see the snow.

It is white.

It is clean.

It is cold.

You want to go out.

You want to die in the snow.

You want to be free.

But you look at the machine.

It is full.

It is ready.

It is waiting.

It has a mouth.

It has teeth.

It wants you.

You are its food.

You are its fuel.

You are its life.

You take the wool.

It is dry.

It is soft.

It is dead.

You put it in.

The machine spins.

Click. Click. Click.

You are gone.

You are not there.

You are the sound.

You are the motion.

You are the spin.

You are the thread.

The thread grows.

It is long.

It is thin.

It is strong.

It wraps around the bobbin.

It wraps around you.

It is a cocoon.

It is a cage.

It is a shroud.

You are inside.

You are safe.

You are alone.

The day passes.

The sun moves.

The shadows stretch.

The shadows touch you.

They are cold.

They are long.

They reach for your feet.

You do not move.

You do not blink.

You are still.

The machine clicks.

Click. Click. Click.

It is a prayer.

It is a chant.

It is a song.

You sing it.

Your mouth is open.

No sound comes out.

It is a silent song.

It is a song of loss.

It is a song of love.

You love the machine.

It is the only thing that is real.

It is the only thing that stays.

It is the only thing that asks.

It asks for wool.

You give it wool.

It asks for strength.

You give it strength.

It asks for life.

You give it life.

You give it all.

You give it your childhood.

You give it your voice.

You give it your eyes.

You are empty.

You are full.

You are nothing.

You are everything.

The night comes.

The dark returns.

The machine clicks.

Click. Click. Click.

You are tired.

So tired.

Your eyes close.

Your hands stop.

The machine slows.

It stops.

The silence is loud.

It is a scream.

It is a void.

You wake.

You are shaking.

The machine is dead.

The wool is spilled.

The room is cold.

You are cold.

You are afraid.

You have failed.

You have let it stop.

You have broken the rule.

You are dead.

You will die.

You will starve.

You will freeze.

You will be alone.

You look at the wool.

It is grey.

It is soft.

It is warm.

You pick it up.

It is light.

It is nothing.

You put it in the machine.

You pull the lever.

The machine groans.

It catches.

It spins.

Click. Click. Click.

It is alive.

You are alive.

You breathe.

The sound is a gift.

It is a mercy.

It is a promise.

You will not die.

Not yet.

Not today.

You work.

You work hard.

You work fast.

You do not stop.

You do not rest.

You do not eat.

You do not sleep.

You are the machine.

The machine is you.

The days blur.

The weeks pass.

The seasons change.

The snow melts.

The rain comes.

The mud forms.

The mud dries.

The grass grows.

You do not see it.

You only see the wool.

You only hear the click.

You only feel the spin.

You are strong.

You are hard.

You are cold.

You are like the iron.

You are like the steel.

You are like the stone.

You do not feel pain.

You do not feel fear.

You do not feel love.

You are empty.

You are full.

You are the temple.

The temple is closed.

The door is locked.

The god is inside.

The god is you.

The god is the machine.

The god is the noise.

You are the priest.

You are the servant.

You are the sacrifice.

You offer your self.

You offer your youth.

You offer your soul.

You offer your name.

You are no one.

You are nothing.

You are the thread.

The thread is long.

It is strong.

It is beautiful.

It is cold.

It is dead.

It is alive.

You are the thread.

You are the end.

The end is near.

The machine stops.

It is done.

The bobbin is full.

The wool is gone.

The room is empty.

You are alone.

You are silent.

You are free.

You are dead.

You open the door.

The light is bright.

The air is cold.

The air is sweet.

You step out.

Your feet touch the grass.

The grass is green.

The grass is soft.

You are light.

You are air.

You are gone.

The mill stands.

The door closes.

The wind blows.

The wind whispers.

It sounds like a click.

Click. Click. Click.

It sounds like a child.

It sounds like a prayer.

It sounds like a lie.

You are gone.

The mill remains.

The temple stands.

The god sleeps.

The temple is empty.

The temple is full.

The temple is you.

You are the temple.

The temple is cold.

The temple is quiet.

The temple is dead.

The temple is alive.

The temple is waiting.

The temple is hungry.

The temple is patient.

The temple is strong.

The temple is you.

You are the temple.

The temple is the end.

The end is the beginning.

The beginning is the end.

The circle is closed.

The thread is cut.

The bobbin is empty.

The room is silent.

The dark is deep.

The cold is deep.

The pain is deep.

The love is deep.

You are deep.

You are gone.

You are here.

You are the click.

Click. Click. Click.