The rain fell on the station roof. It sounded like static. Or like breathing. Thomas stood by the window. He watched the tracks. They were empty. The lights were off. The building hummed. It was a low sound. It lived in his teeth.

"Stop staring," said a voice.

Thomas did not turn. "I am working."

"You are wasting heat," the voice said. "The furnace is cold."

Thomas looked at the clock. It ticked. The second hand moved. It was slow. It was heavy. He felt the weight in his own chest. He was a man who held things. He held the door. He held the key. He held the silence.

"Who is it?" Thomas asked.

"Me," said the voice. "And the others."

The door opened. Wind rushed in. It smelled of wet wool and iron. A woman stood there. She was tall. Her hair was dark. She wore a coat that was too thin. Her face was pale. Her eyes were bright.

"Margaret," Thomas said.

"I am here," she said.

She stepped inside. The door closed behind her. The latch clicked. The sound was loud. It was sharp. It cut the air.

Thomas looked at the wall. The wall was gray. The plaster was cracked. The cracks looked like veins. They pulsed. They moved. Thomas knew they were watching. He knew they were waiting.

"Come in," Thomas said. "Sit down."

Margaret sat. She put her bag on the floor. The bag was old. It was torn. She looked at Thomas. She did not smile. She did not cry. She just looked.

"Did you bring it?" Thomas asked.

Margaret nodded. She opened her bag. She took out a box. The box was small. It was made of wood. It was dark. It was heavy. She put it on the table.

"Open it," she said.

Thomas did not move. His hands were still. His fingers were stiff. He looked at the box. He felt a pull. It was strong. It was in his bones.

"I cannot," Thomas said.

"You can," Margaret said. "You must."

Thomas reached out. His hand trembled. He touched the lid. The wood was cold. It was wet. It felt alive. It breathed under his fingers.

He lifted the lid.

Inside was a stone. It was black. It was smooth. It was warm. It glowed. The light was faint. It was red. It was deep.

Thomas pulled his hand back. He gasped. The air left him. The room tilted. The walls closed in. The cracks widened. They bled. The blood was black. It ran down the plaster. It pooled on the floor.

"What is this?" Thomas whispered.

"It is the core," Margaret said. "It is the heart of the place."

Thomas looked at the stone. He felt it pulling him. It was a hook. It was in his mind. It was in his soul.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because it is dying," Margaret said. "The station is dying. It needs fuel. It needs life."

Thomas looked at the floor. The black blood was spreading. It was creeping toward his boots. He stepped back. His heel hit the table. The box wobbled. The stone rolled. It fell onto the floor. It rolled toward the blood.

It stopped. It sat in the pool of black liquid. The light flared. It was bright. It was hot. The air shimmered.

Thomas looked at Margaret. She was watching. Her eyes were wide. Her mouth was open. She was not afraid. She was excited.

"Take it," she said. "Hold it."

"I will not," Thomas said.

"You must," she said. "Or we all die."

Thomas looked at the stone. He looked at the blood. He looked at the walls. The walls were shaking. The lights flickered. The hum grew louder. It was a scream. It was a roar.

He walked to the stone. His legs were heavy. His heart was slow. He knelt down. The floor was wet. It was slippery. He slipped. He fell. His head hit the floor. It hurt. It rang.

He reached for the stone. His hand closed around it.

Heat.

Fire.

Light.

He screamed. The sound came from deep inside him. It was not his voice. It was the voice of the building. It was the voice of the stone.

He held the stone. He lifted it. The blood receded. It pulled back from his feet. It ran into the cracks. The cracks closed. The plaster healed. The walls stood still.

Thomas stood up. He held the stone in his hands. It was heavy. It was warm. It was beating. It beat with his heart.

Margaret stood up. She looked at him. She smiled. It was a sad smile. It was a hungry smile.

"You did it," she said.

"I did," Thomas said.

He looked at the stone. He saw his own face in it. His eyes were red. His skin was gray. He was not Thomas. He was the station. He was the wall. He was the door.

He looked at Margaret. She was not Margaret. She was the air. She was the wind. She was the cold.

"I have to give it back," Thomas said.

"No," Margaret said. "You have to keep it."

"Why?" Thomas asked.

"Because it needs you," she said. "It needs a holder. It needs a heart."

Thomas felt the stone pulse. It was strong. It was violent. It was taking him. It was eating him. He felt his memories fading. He felt his name slipping away.

He looked at the window. The rain had stopped. The sky was clear. The stars were out. They were bright. They were far.

He looked at the door. The latch was loose. The handle was cold.

"I cannot stay," Thomas said.

"You must," Margaret said. "You are the key now."

Thomas shook his head. He looked at the stone. He looked at his hands. They were turning black. The veins were visible. They were red. They were thick.

He walked to the door. His steps were heavy. The floor creaked. The building groaned.

"Thomas," Margaret said. "Stay."

He opened the door. The night rushed in. It was cold. It was quiet. It was free.

He stepped out.

The door closed behind him.

He stood on the platform. The rain was falling again. It was light. It was soft. It washed the black from his hands. It washed the gray from his face.

He looked back at the station. The lights were on. They were bright. They were warm.

He saw Margaret in the window. She was watching him. She was waving.

He turned away. He walked down the tracks. He walked into the dark.

The stone was gone.

The building hummed.

It was happy.

***

Three days later, Thomas returned.

He walked into the station. He carried a bag. The bag was new. It was leather. It was brown.

He walked to the office. The door was open. The desk was empty. The chair was empty.

Margaret was sitting on the floor. She was leaning against the wall. Her eyes were closed. Her breathing was shallow.

"Margaret," Thomas said.

She opened her eyes. They were dull. They were empty.

"Where is it?" Thomas asked.

"I do not know," she said.

He looked at the wall. The cracks were back. They were wide. They were deep. The blood was flowing. It was thick. It was hot.

He looked at the table. The box was there. The lid was open. It was empty.

"Did you take it?" Thomas asked.

"I tried," Margaret said. "It burned me. I could not hold it."

Thomas looked at his hands. They were clean. They were pale. They were normal.

He walked to the box. He reached inside. He felt nothing. He felt no heat. He felt no pull.

He looked at Margaret. She was weeping. Silent tears. They ran down her cheeks.

"I am sorry," she said. "I am so sorry."

Thomas sat down. He put his head in his hands. He felt the hum. It was faint. It was far. It was fading.

The building was dying.

It was not because of the stone. It was because of the lack of will. It was because of the lack of choice.

Thomas looked at the door. He looked at the window. He looked at the tracks.

He stood up. He walked to the window. He opened it. The wind came in. It was cold. It was sharp.

He took off his coat. He threw it on the floor. He rolled up his sleeves. He showed his arms. They were bare. They were thin.

He walked to the center of the room. He stood still. He closed his eyes.

He thought of his wife. He thought of her laugh. He thought of her hand. He thought of her voice.

He thought of the stone. He thought of the heat. He thought of the pain.

He did not want the pain. He did not want the heat. He did not want the power.

He wanted the silence.

He opened his eyes. He looked at the cracks. They were moving. They were spreading.

He walked to the wall. He put his hand on the plaster. It was cold. It was dead.

He pushed.

Nothing happened.

He pushed harder.

The plaster cracked. It crumbled. It fell onto the floor.

He pushed again.

The wall split. It opened. Behind the wall was darkness. It was deep. It was endless.

Thomas stepped through.

He was in the dark.

He felt the heat. It was everywhere. It was in the air. It was in the ground. It was in the sky.

He felt the stone. It was not a stone. It was a presence. It was a memory. It was a choice.

He felt Margaret. She was there. She was far. She was close.

He let go.

He let go of the wall. He let go of the stone. He let go of the past.

He let go of himself.

The light came.

It was bright. It was white. It was pure.

It filled the room. It filled the station. It filled the world.

The cracks healed. The blood dried. The walls stood.

Thomas stood in the light. He was alone.

Margaret stood in the corner. She was watching. She was smiling.

Thomas looked at her. He did not know her. He did not know himself.

He walked to the door. He opened it.

The rain was falling.

He stepped out.

The door closed.

The station hummed.

It was quiet.

It was empty.

It was free.