You wake with the taste of iron on your tongue. It is a copper taste, old and cold. You are lying on the floor of the textile mill, near the loom that has not stopped moving in forty years. The sound is a roar. It is a constant, heavy thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. It fills your skull. It fills the space between your ribs. You try to sit up. Your body is heavy. It feels made of wet clay. You look at your hands. They are stained blue with indigo. The dye has eaten into the skin. It is under the nails. It is in the pores. You remember the name. Margaret. You remember the job. You are the weaver. You are the one who watches the thread.

The air is thick. It hangs in the beams like smoke. You can smell the lint. It is a sweet, dusty smell. It smells like old clothes. It smells like the inside of a closet. You see a shadow move across the floor. It is not a person. It is a shape. It is made of steam. It coils around your ankles. You kick at it. It does not break. It tightens. You feel a coldness spread from your feet to your knees. You stand up. Your legs shake. You walk toward the window. The glass is dirty. You press your forehead against it. Outside, the fog is yellow. It eats the brick walls of the other buildings. You see a face in the glass. It is your face. But the eyes are wrong. They are too wide. They are empty. They are looking at you from the other side. You are on the inside. The ghost is on the outside. No. You are the ghost. You are the one who is left behind.

You turn away. The loom is faster now. Clack. Clack. Clack. The rhythm is in your blood. You walk to the supervisor’s office. The door is open. The light inside is pale. It is the light of a sick room. Thomas is there. He sits at his desk. He does not look up. He is writing. The pen scratches on the paper. It is a sharp sound. It cuts through the roar of the looms. You stop at the door. You do not enter. You wait. You feel the heat of the room. It is too warm. It is humid. You feel your shirt stick to your back.

Thomas stops writing. He looks up. His face is thin. He has a long nose. It is pale. He sees you. His eyes narrow. He does not smile. He does not wave. He looks at you with a coldness that is like ice. You know why he looks at you that way. You know what he thinks. He thinks you are a spy. He thinks you are stealing the patterns. He thinks you are working for the union. He is wrong. But he is right. You are working against him. You are working for the machine. You are working for the thing that will outlive you.

"Margaret," he says. His voice is low. It is flat. "You are out of place."

"I am here," you say. Your voice is small. It is dry. "I am always here."

"You are not," he says. He stands up. He is tall. He looks down at you. "The shift is over. You should go home. Your family is waiting."

"I have no family," you say. "I have the work."

Thomas sighs. It is a long sigh. It sounds like a leak in a pipe. "You are tired. You are confused. Go to the break room. Drink some water. Come back when you are clear."

You do not go. You watch him. He goes back to his desk. He picks up the pen. He writes. You turn away. You walk back into the main floor. The noise is louder here. It is a physical weight. It presses on your chest. You walk to the center of the room. You stand still. You close your eyes. You listen. You hear the threads. They are singing. They are thin and high. They are like the voices of children. They are crying. They are calling your name.

You open your eyes. The shadow is back. It is bigger now. It is standing in front of you. It is wearing your dress. It is wearing your apron. It has your hair. It looks at you. It smiles. It is a smile you have never made. It is a smile of pure hunger. It reaches out a hand. The hand is made of smoke. It touches your face. It is cold. It is so cold. You do not pull away. You let it touch you. You let it pull you. You feel your body becoming light. You feel your weight leaving your feet. You are rising. You are floating. You are above the loom. You are above the noise. You are above the fear.

You see the whole room. You see the other workers. They are moving like ants. They are bent over their tasks. They do not look up. They do not see you. They do not see the shadow. They are part of the machine. They are gears. They are cogs. You understand now. You are not a person. You are a part. You are the part that breaks. You are the part that is replaced. But you are also the part that remembers. You are the part that holds the shape.

The shadow takes your hand. It pulls you down. You land on the floor. The noise stops. For a second, it is silent. It is a silence so deep it hurts. Then the loom starts again. Clack. Clack. Clack. You are back. You are on the floor. You are breathing. You are alive. You are not dead. But you are not whole. You are split. Half of you is here. Half of you is in the machine.

You stand up. You walk to Thomas’s office. The door is open. He is still writing. You walk in. You stand in front of him. He does not look up. You put your hand on his desk. You do not touch him. You just put your hand there. You let him see it. You let him see the smoke rising from your fingers.

He stops. He looks at your hand. His face goes white. He looks at your face. He sees the emptiness in your eyes. He sees the hunger. He backs away. He falls into his chair. He pushes it back. It scrapes against the floor. It is a harsh sound.

"What are you?" he asks. His voice is a whisper. It is afraid.

"I am the work," you say. "I am the thread. I am the pattern. I am what remains when you leave."

He stands up. He shakes. He tries to speak. He cannot. He grabs the door handle. He opens the door. He runs. He runs out of the office. He runs into the main floor. He runs toward the exit. The noise is deafening. He does not care. He runs. He crashes through the double doors. He is gone. He is outside. He is in the fog.

You are alone. You stand in the office. The light is pale. It is the light of a tomb. You look at your hand. The smoke is gone. Your fingers are normal. They are stained blue. You look at the desk. There is a piece of paper. It is a list. It is a list of names. Margaret. Thomas. Sarah. John. They are the workers. They are the ones who have left. They are the ones who have become part of the machine. You pick up the pen. It is warm. It feels like a living thing. You write a new name. You write your name. You cross it out. You write a new name. It is a name you do not know. It is a name for the future. It is a name for the one who will come after you.

You put the pen down. You walk out of the office. You walk to the loom. You stop in front of it. The thread is moving. It is fast. It is smooth. It is perfect. You reach out. You touch the thread. It is warm. It is soft. It is like skin. You pull it. It does not break. It stretches. It goes on forever. You feel it pull you. You feel your body stretch. You feel your mind expand. You are not Margaret anymore. You are the loom. You are the thread. You are the pattern. You are the history. You are the memory.

The noise changes. It is not a roar. It is a hum. It is a low, deep hum. It is the sound of the earth turning. It is the sound of time passing. You are in the center of it. You are the eye of the storm. You are calm. You are still. You are free.

The fog outside thickens. It covers the windows. It covers the world. The mill is a box. It is a safe box. It is a prison. It is a home. You do not care. You have no need for care. You have no need for fear. You have no need for hope. You have the pattern. You have the truth. The truth is that nothing ends. Everything continues. Everything is connected. Everything is one.

You close your eyes. You open them. You are still here. You are still Margaret. But you are also the machine. You are the thread. You are the shadow. You are the light. You are the silence. You are the noise. You are the past. You are the future. You are now.

The loom continues. Clack. Clack. Clack. It will continue forever. It will outlive the brick. It will outlive the stone. It will outlive the sky. It will outlive the stars. It is the only thing that matters. It is the only thing that is real. You smile. It is a small smile. It is a sad smile. It is a beautiful smile. You turn to the door. You leave the office. You walk into the main floor. You join the others. You become part of the rhythm. You become part of the song. You disappear. You are gone. You are here. You are the thread.