The bus is late. You know it is late because the rain has stopped and the silence in the depot is too heavy. You are standing by the window. Your badge is in your pocket. It feels like a stone. Cold. Hard. It presses against your hip bone. You are waiting for the 9:15. You are not supposed to be here. You are supposed to be at the precinct. Or at home. But you are here.

The depot smells of wet wool and diesel. It smells of old coffee. A man in a yellow vest walks past. He holds a clipboard. He does not look at you. He looks at the floor. He looks at the rain on the glass. You look at your hands. They are shaking. Just a little. You hide them in your pockets.

You are a detective. You have been a detective for twelve years. You have seen things. You have broken things. You have broken men. You have broken women. You have broken yourself. You do not remember when it started. You only remember the end. You remember the feeling. The feeling of wrongness. The feeling of being wrong.

The bus arrives. It hisses. The brakes screech. The doors open. The air is cold. You step in. The driver looks at you. He sees the badge. He looks away. He wants you to be invisible. You want to be invisible.

You sit in the back. The seat is plastic. It is cold against your back. You watch the city go by. The buildings are gray. The streets are wet. The people are gray. They move like ghosts. They do not see you. You are a ghost. You are a shadow. You are a stain on the glass.

You think about the case. The case is closed. You closed it. You solved it. Or so they say. You found the body. You found the killer. You put the killer in the box. You put the box in the hole. You filled the hole with dirt. You planted a flower. You watered the flower. The flower died.

You think about the food. The food is the thing. The food is the key. You remember the soup. The red soup. The thick soup. It was in a pot. The pot was black. The steam rose up. It smelled of iron. It smelled of blood. You drank it. You drank it all. You wanted more. You needed more. You were hungry. You were always hungry.

The bus stops. You do not move. You wait. The driver waits. He taps the wheel. He looks at you. You look at him. You nod. You get off.

You walk into the station. The lobby is large. It is empty. The tiles are white. They are shiny. They reflect your face. Your face is old. Your face is tired. Your eyes are dark. You do not like what you see. You look away. You walk to the desk.

A woman is there. She is young. She has red hair. She is eating a sandwich. She bites the bread. The bread is soft. The meat is pink. She chews. She swallows. She looks at you. She does not know you. She does not care.

"Can I help you?" she asks. Her voice is flat. It is dry. It is like the dust on the shelves.

"I need to see the Director," you say. Your voice is low. It is rough. It is like sand on stone.

"Who is he?" she asks.

"You know who he is," you say.

She frowns. She looks at her sandwich. She picks up a piece of lettuce. She puts it in her mouth. She chews. She swallows. "I don't know who you mean," she says. "There is no Director. There is only the Manager."

"There is a Director," you say. "His name is Elias."

She laughs. It is a short laugh. It is dry. It is like a crack in the glass. "No. There is no Elias. There was no Elias. You are confused."

"I am not confused," you say. "I am sure."

"You are wrong," she says. She turns to the computer. She types. Her fingers are fast. They are like birds. They are like insects. "You are not on the list. You are not a detective. You are a civilian."

"I am a detective," you say. "My name is James Whitmore. I am a detective."

She turns around. She looks at you. Her eyes are cold. They are like ice. "There is no James Whitmore. There is no one by that name. You are a mistake. You are a glitch. You are a ghost."

You feel the badge in your pocket. You pull it out. You hold it up. It is silver. It is bright. It shines in the dim light. "This is real," you say. "This is proof."

She looks at the badge. She looks at you. She looks at the badge again. She smiles. It is a sad smile. It is a pitying smile. "That is a prop," she says. "It is a toy. You are in the wrong place. You are in the wrong time."

"What do you mean?" you ask.

"I mean you are not here," she says. "You are in your head. You are in your memory. You are in the past. The past is gone. The city is gone. The station is gone. We are gone."

You look around. The lobby is changing. The walls are moving. The tiles are melting. The floor is rising. The air is thick. It is heavy. It is like water. You cannot breathe. You try to breathe. You cannot.

The woman is gone. The desk is gone. The computer is gone. You are alone. You are in a room. The room is white. It is empty. It is silent. You are standing in the middle of the room. You are holding the badge. You are holding the soup.

The soup is in your hand. It is in a bowl. The bowl is white. The soup is red. The steam rises up. It smells of iron. It smells of blood. You look at the soup. You look at your hand. The hand is not your hand. It is a monster’s hand. It is black. It is clawed. It is dripping.

You drop the bowl. It shatters. The soup spills. It runs across the floor. It runs up the walls. It runs over you. It is cold. It is hot. It is both. You are burning. You are freezing. You are dying. You are alive.

You look at the door. The door is open. The light is bright. It is white. It is blinding. You walk to the door. You step through. You are outside.

You are in a field. The field is green. The grass is tall. It sways in the wind. The wind is cold. It blows in your face. You feel it. You feel the rain. It is real. It is wet. It is cold.

You are in the field. You are in the city. You are in the station. You are in the soup. You are in the badge. You are in the memory. You are in the dream. You are in the wake.

You stand in the field. You look at the sky. The sky is gray. The clouds are low. They are heavy. They are like stones. They are like weights. They are pressing down on you. They are pressing down on the world.

You think about Elias. You think about the Director. You think about the truth. The truth is a lie. The lie is a truth. The boundary is gone. The line is gone. The good is gone. The bad is gone. There is only the gray. There is only the soup. There is only the badge.

You close your eyes. You feel the rain on your face. You feel the cold in your bones. You feel the weight in your pocket. You feel the heat in your hand. You feel the pain. You feel the loss. You feel the end.

You open your eyes. You are back in the bus. The bus is moving. The city is passing by. The buildings are gray. The streets are wet. The people are gray. You are sitting in the back. You are holding the badge. You are holding the memory.

The bus stops. The doors open. The air is cold. You step out. You walk into the station. The lobby is large. It is empty. The tiles are white. They are shiny. They reflect your face. Your face is old. Your face is tired. Your eyes are dark.

A woman is there. She is young. She has red hair. She is eating a sandwich. She bites the bread. The bread is soft. The meat is pink. She chews. She swallows. She looks at you. She does not know you. She does not care.

"Can I help you?" she asks. Her voice is flat. It is dry. It is like the dust on the shelves.

"I need to see the Director," you say. Your voice is low. It is rough. It is like sand on stone.

"Who is he?" she asks.

"You know who he is," you say.

She frowns. She looks at her sandwich. She picks up a piece of lettuce. She puts it in her mouth. She chews. She swallows. "I don't know who you mean," she says. "There is no Director. There is only the Manager."

"There is a Director," you say. "His name is Elias."

She laughs. It is a short laugh. It is dry. It is like a crack in the glass. "No. There is no Elias. There was no Elias. You are confused."

"I am not confused," you say. "I am sure."

"You are wrong," she says. She turns to the computer. She types. Her fingers are fast. They are like birds. They are like insects. "You are not on the list. You are not a detective. You are a civilian."

"I am a detective," you say. "My name is James Whitmore. I am a detective."

She turns around. She looks at you. Her eyes are cold. They are like ice. "There is no James Whitmore. There is no one by that name. You are a mistake. You are a glitch. You are a ghost."

You feel the badge in your pocket. You pull it out. You hold it up. It is silver. It is bright. It shines in the dim light. "This is real," you say. "This is proof."

She looks at the badge. She looks at you. She looks at the badge again. She smiles. It is a sad smile. It is a pitying smile. "That is a prop," she says. "It is a toy. You are in the wrong place. You are in the wrong time."

"What do you mean?" you ask.

"I mean you are not here," she says. "You are in your head. You are in your memory. You are in the past. The past is gone. The city is gone. The station is gone. We are gone."

You look around. The lobby is changing. The walls are moving. The tiles are melting. The floor is rising. The air is thick. It is heavy. It is like water. You cannot breathe. You try to breathe. You cannot.

The woman is gone. The desk is gone. The computer is gone. You are alone. You are in a room. The room is white. It is empty. It is silent. You are standing in the middle of the room. You are holding the badge. You are holding the soup.

The soup is in your hand. It is in a bowl. The bowl is white. The soup is red. The steam rises up. It smells of iron. It smells of blood. You look at the soup. You look at your hand. The hand is not your hand. It is a monster’s hand. It is black. It is clawed. It is dripping.

You drop the bowl. It shatters. The soup spills. It runs across the floor. It runs up the walls. It runs over you. It is cold. It is hot. It is both. You are burning. You are freezing. You are dying. You are alive.

You look at the door. The door is open. The light is bright. It is white. It is blinding. You walk to the door. You step through. You are outside.

You are in a field. The field is green. The grass is tall. It sways in the wind. The wind is cold. It blows in your face. You feel it. You feel the rain. It is real. It is wet. It is cold.

You stand in the field. You look at the sky. The sky is gray. The clouds are low. They are heavy. They are like stones. They are like weights. They are pressing down on you. They are pressing down on the world.

You think about Elias. You think about the Director. You think about the truth. The truth is a lie. The lie is a truth. The boundary is gone. The line is gone. The good is gone. The bad is gone. There is only the gray. There is only the soup. There is only the badge.

You close your eyes. You feel the rain on your face. You feel the cold in your bones. You feel the weight in your pocket. You feel the heat in your hand. You feel the pain. You feel the loss. You feel the end.

You open your eyes. You are back in the bus. The bus is moving. The city is passing by. The buildings are gray. The streets are wet. The people are gray. You are sitting in the back. You are holding the badge. You are holding the memory.

The bus stops. The doors open. The air is cold. You step out. You walk into the station. The lobby is large. It is empty. The tiles are white. They are shiny. They reflect your face. Your face is old. Your face is tired. Your eyes are dark.

A woman is there. She is young. She has red hair. She is eating a sandwich. She bites the bread. The bread is soft. The meat is pink. She chews. She swallows. She looks at you. She does not know you. She does not care.

"Can I help you?" she asks. Her voice is flat. It is dry. It is like the dust on the shelves.

"I need to see the Director," you say. Your voice is low. It is rough. It is like sand on stone.

"Who is he?" she asks.

"You know who he is," you say.

She frowns. She looks at her sandwich. She picks up a piece of lettuce. She puts it in her mouth. She chews. She swallows. "I don't know who you mean," she says. "There is no Director. There is only the Manager."

"There is a Director," you say. "His name is Elias."

She laughs. It is a short laugh. It is dry. It is like a crack in the glass. "No. There is no Elias. There was no Elias. You are confused."

"I am not confused," you say. "I am sure."

"You are wrong," she says. She turns to the computer. She types. Her fingers are fast. They are like birds. They are like insects. "You are not on the list. You are not a detective. You are a civilian."

"I am a detective," you say. "My name is James Whitmore. I am a detective."

She turns around. She looks at you. Her eyes are cold. They are like ice. "There is no James Whitmore. There is no one by that name. You are a mistake. You are a glitch. You are a ghost."

You feel the badge in your pocket. You pull it out. You hold it up. It is silver. It is bright. It shines in the dim light. "This is real," you say. "This is proof."

She looks at the badge. She looks at you. She looks at the badge again. She smiles. It is a sad smile. It is a pitying smile. "That is a prop," she says. "It is a toy. You are in the wrong place. You are in the wrong time."

"What do you mean?" you ask.

"I mean you are not here," she says. "You are in your head. You are in your memory. You are in the past. The past is gone. The city is gone. The station is gone. We are gone."

You look around. The lobby is changing. The walls are moving. The tiles are melting. The floor is rising. The air is thick. It is heavy. It is like water. You cannot breathe. You try to breathe. You cannot.

The woman is gone. The desk is gone. The computer is gone. You are alone. You are in a room. The room is white. It is empty. It is silent. You are standing in the middle of the room. You are holding the badge. You are holding the soup.

The soup is in your hand. It is in a bowl. The bowl is white. The soup is red. The steam rises up. It smells of iron. It smells of blood. You look at the soup. You look at your hand. The hand is not your hand. It is a monster’s hand. It is black. It is clawed. It is dripping.

You drop the bowl. It shatters. The soup spills. It runs across the floor. It runs up the walls. It runs over you. It is cold. It is hot. It is both. You are burning. You are freezing. You are dying. You are alive.

You look at the door. The door is open. The light is bright. It is white. It is blinding. You walk to the door. You step through. You are outside.

You are in a field. The field is green. The grass is tall. It sways in the wind. The wind is cold. It blows in your face. You feel it. You feel the rain. It is real. It is wet. It is cold.

You stand in the field. You look at the sky. The sky is gray. The clouds are low. They are heavy. They are like stones. They are like weights. They are pressing down on you. They are pressing down on the world.

You think about Elias. You think about the Director. You think about the truth. The truth is a lie. The lie is a truth. The boundary is gone. The line is gone. The good is gone. The bad is gone. There is only the gray. There is only the soup. There is only the badge.

You close your eyes. You feel the rain on your face. You feel the cold in your bones. You feel the weight in your pocket. You feel the heat in your hand. You feel the pain. You feel the loss. You feel the end.

You open your eyes. You are back in the bus. The bus is moving. The city is passing by. The buildings are gray. The streets are wet. The people are gray. You are sitting in the back. You are holding the badge. You are holding the memory.

The bus stops. The doors open. The air is cold. You step out. You walk into the station. The lobby is large. It is empty. The tiles are white. They are shiny. They reflect your face. Your face is old. Your face is tired. Your eyes are dark.

A woman is there. She is young. She has red hair. She is eating a sandwich. She bites the bread. The bread is soft. The meat is pink. She chews. She swallows. She looks at you. She does not know you. She does not care.

"Can I help you?" she asks. Her voice is flat. It is dry. It is like the dust on the shelves.

"I need to see the Director," you say. Your voice is low. It is rough. It is like sand on stone.

"Who is he?" she asks.

"You know who he is," you say.

She frowns. She looks at her sandwich. She picks up a piece of lettuce. She puts it in her mouth. She chews. She swallows. "I don't know who you mean," she says. "There is no Director. There is only the Manager."

"There is a Director," you say. "His name is Elias."

She laughs. It is a short laugh. It is dry. It is like a crack in the glass. "No. There is no Elias. There was no Elias. You are confused."

"I am not confused," you say. "I am sure."

"You are wrong," she says. She turns to the computer. She types. Her fingers are fast. They are like birds. They are like insects. "You are not on the list. You are not a detective. You are a civilian."

"I am a detective," you say. "My name is James Whitmore. I am a detective."

She turns around. She looks at you. Her eyes are cold. They are like ice. "There is no James Whitmore. There is no one by that name. You are a mistake. You are a glitch. You are a ghost."

You feel the badge in your pocket. You pull it out. You hold it up. It is silver. It is bright. It shines in the dim light. "This is real," you say. "This is proof."

She looks at the badge. She looks at you. She looks at the badge again. She smiles. It is a sad smile. It is a pitying smile. "That is a prop," she says. "It is a toy. You are in the wrong place. You are in the wrong time."

"What do you mean?" you ask.

"I mean you are not here," she says. "You are in your head. You are in your memory. You are in the past. The past is gone. The city is gone. The station is gone. We are gone."

You look around. The lobby is changing. The walls are moving. The tiles are melting. The floor is rising. The air is thick. It is heavy. It is like water. You cannot breathe. You try to breathe. You cannot.

The woman is gone. The desk is gone. The computer is gone. You are alone. You are in a room. The room is white. It is empty. It is silent. You are standing in the middle of the room. You are holding the badge. You are holding the soup.

The soup is in your hand. It is in a bowl. The bowl is white. The soup is red. The steam rises up. It smells of iron. It smells of blood. You look at the soup. You look at your hand. The hand is not your hand. It is a monster’s hand. It is black. It is clawed. It is dripping.

You drop the bowl. It shatters. The soup spills. It runs across the floor. It runs up the walls. It runs over you. It is cold. It is hot. It is both. You are burning. You are freezing. You are dying. You are alive.

You look at the door. The door is open. The light is bright. It is white. It is blinding. You walk to the door. You step through. You are outside.

You are in a field. The field is green. The grass is tall. It sways in the wind. The wind is cold. It blows in your face. You feel it. You feel the rain. It is real. It is wet. It is cold.

You stand in the field. You look at the sky. The sky is gray. The clouds are low. They are heavy. They are like stones. They are like weights. They are pressing down on you. They are pressing down on the world.

You think about Elias. You think about the Director. You think about the truth. The truth is a lie. The lie is a truth. The boundary is gone. The line is gone. The good is gone. The bad is gone. There is only the gray. There is only the soup. There is only the badge.

You close your eyes. You feel the rain on your face. You feel the cold in your bones. You feel the weight in your pocket. You feel the heat in your hand. You feel the pain. You feel the loss. You feel the end.

You open your eyes. You are back in the bus. The bus is moving. The city is passing by. The buildings are gray. The streets are wet. The people are gray. You are sitting in the back. You are holding the badge. You are holding the memory.

The bus stops. The doors open. The air is cold. You step out. You walk into the station. The lobby is large. It is empty. The tiles are white. They are shiny. They reflect your face. Your face is old. Your face is tired. Your eyes are dark.

A woman is there. She is young. She has red hair. She is eating a sandwich. She bites the bread. The bread is soft. The meat is pink. She chews. She swallows. She looks at you. She does not know you. She does not care.

"Can I help you?" she asks. Her voice is flat. It is dry. It is like the dust on the shelves.

"I need to see the Director," you say. Your voice is low. It is rough. It is like sand on stone.

"Who is he?" she asks.

"You know who he is," you say.

She frowns. She looks at her sandwich. She picks up a piece of lettuce. She puts it in her mouth. She chews. She swallows. "I don't know who you mean," she says. "There is no Director. There is only the Manager."

"There is a Director," you say. "His name is Elias."

She laughs. It is a short laugh. It is dry. It is like a crack in the glass. "No. There is no Elias. There was no Elias. You are confused."

"I am not confused," you say. "I am sure."

"You are wrong," she says. She turns to the computer. She types. Her fingers are fast. They are like birds. They are like insects. "You are not on the list. You are not a detective. You are a civilian."

"I am a detective," you say. "My name is James Whitmore. I am a detective."

She turns around. She looks at you. Her eyes are cold. They are like ice. "There is no James Whitmore. There is no one by that name. You are a mistake. You are a glitch. You are a ghost."

You feel the badge in your pocket. You pull it out. You hold it up. It is silver. It is bright. It shines in the dim light. "This is real," you say. "This is proof."

She looks at the badge. She looks at you. She looks at the badge again. She smiles. It is a sad smile. It is a pitying smile. "That is a prop," she says. "It is a toy. You are in the wrong place. You are in the wrong time."

"What do you mean?" you ask.

"I mean you are not here," she says. "You are in your head. You are in your memory. You are in the past. The past is gone. The city is gone. The station is gone. We are gone."

You look around. The