The clock on the wall of the textile mill ticked with a rhythm that felt less like time and more like a hammer striking a nail. Margaret wiped her hands on her apron. The fabric was blue. It was always blue. She looked at her mother, who sat in the corner, her eyes fixed on a spot on the floor that didn’t exist.

"Look at me, Ma," Margaret said.

Her mother didn’t move. She breathed. In. Out. The sound was wet.

"Ma, the clock is running fast today," Margaret said.

Her mother turned her head. Slowly. The motion was mechanical, like a rusted hinge.

"Time is a lie," her mother whispered. Her voice was dry. Leaves on a sidewalk.

Margaret smiled. It was a small smile. A tight thing.

"Time is the only thing we have," Margaret said. "We must be on time. The foreman is watching."

The foreman was not watching. The foreman was at the pub. The foreman was everywhere and nowhere. The foreman was the clock.

Margaret walked to the loom. The loom was old. The wood was dark. It hummed. A low, angry hum.

"Is the machine hungry?" Margaret asked the loom.

The loom did not answer. But the shuttle flew. Left. Right. Left. Right.

Margaret’s hands moved. They moved faster than her thoughts. Her thoughts were slow. Her thoughts were heavy. They sat in her chest like stones.

The factory floor was vast. The shadows were long. The air smelled of dust and sweat and something else. Something sweet. Rotting fruit.

Her mother stood up. The chair scraped against the concrete. The sound was sharp. It cut the air.

"Margaret," her mother said.

"Ma?"

"I see the threads," her mother said. "They are red. They are all red."

Margaret looked at the fabric. It was blue.

"Blue, Ma," Margaret said. "It is blue."

"No," her mother said. "It is blood."

Margaret felt a chill. It started in her toes. It climbed up her legs. It settled in her stomach.

"Let us go," her mother said. "The door is open."

There was no door. There were only windows. High up. Barred.

"We work," Margaret said. "We finish the shift."

"I am tired," her mother said. "I am so tired of the weaving."

Margaret looked at her hands. They were stained. The blue dye had gone under her nails. It had gone into the cuts. It was part of her now.

"Come back to the loom, Ma," Margaret said. Her voice was steady. But her heart was not. Her heart was a bird in a cage. Beating. Beating. Beating.

Her mother walked toward the window. The glass reflected her face. The face was pale. The eyes were wide. The eyes were empty.

"Look," her mother said. "The world is outside. It is green. It is free."

Margaret looked out the window. It was dark. It was night. She could not see green. She could not see freedom. She could only see the reflection of the loom.

"Stay," Margaret said.

"I cannot," her mother said. "I must go to the other side."

"What other side?" Margaret asked.

"The side where there are no clocks," her mother said.

Margaret stepped forward. She grabbed her mother’s arm. The arm was cold. The arm was thin. Like a branch in winter.

"Ma, listen to me," Margaret said. "If you go, I will come. If I come, we will starve. If we starve, we will die. Do you want to die, Ma?"

Her mother looked at her. The look was soft. The look was kind. The look was sad.

"I want to live," her mother said. "But this is not life. This is a pattern. I am a thread in your pattern, Margaret. I am not a person."

Margaret pulled her mother back. The loom stopped. The hum ceased. The silence was loud. The silence was heavy.

The foreman appeared. He was tall. He was thin. He wore a coat that was too large. He held a cane. The cane was made of iron.

"Margaret," the foreman said. "Why has the machine stopped?"

"My mother," Margaret said. "She is ill."

The foreman looked at the mother. He did not blink. His eyes were black. They were holes.

"She is a distraction," the foreman said. "Distractions are not allowed."

"She is my mother," Margaret said.

"Mothers are not allowed in the factory," the foreman said. "Only workers. Only hands. Only threads."

Margaret looked at her mother. Her mother was crying. The tears were not clear. The tears were blue.

"Take her away," the foreman said. "Or I will take you away."

Margaret’s hands shook. She looked at the loom. The loom waited. The loom was patient. The loom was hungry.

"I can work faster," Margaret said. "I can weave more. I will make up for the time lost."

The foreman smiled. It was a thin smile. It was a cruel smile.

"Speed is good," the foreman said. "Speed is everything. But you must be alone. The machine does not like company."

Margaret looked at her mother. "Ma, wait here. I will come back. I will bring food. I will bring light."

Her mother nodded. She sat down. She closed her eyes. She looked like a statue. She looked like a ghost.

Margaret went to the loom. She sat down. The seat was hard. The wood was cold.

She began to weave.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

The rhythm returned. The hammer struck the nail. The clock ticked.

She wove. And wove. And wove.

Her eyes burned. Her back ached. Her mind went blank.

The hours passed. Or they didn’t. It was hard to tell. The light did not change. The shadows did not move.

She wove a pattern. A complex pattern. A beautiful pattern.

She thought of her mother. She thought of the green world. She thought of the other side.

She wove a door into the fabric. A small door. A wooden door. With a brass handle.

She wove a key. A silver key.

She wove a path. A long path. Made of grass.

She wove a sun. A bright sun.

She poured her soul into the fabric. She poured her fear. She poured her love. She poured her anger.

The fabric grew. It grew larger than the loom. It grew larger than the room. It filled the air. It filled the space.

The foreman watched. He did not stop her. He leaned on his cane. He watched with interest.

"Good," he said. "Very good. The pattern is strong."

Margaret did not hear him. She was gone. She was in the fabric. She was in the pattern.

She saw the door. She saw the key. She saw the path.

She saw her mother. Her mother was standing at the door. Her mother was holding the key.

"Ma," Margaret said. But her voice did not come out. It was trapped in the thread.

Her mother turned. She looked at the fabric. She looked at the door.

"I see it," her mother said. "It is real."

"Use it," Margaret thought. "Use the key. Open the door."

Her mother raised the key. The key shone. The light from the key was warm. It was gold.

Her mother put the key in the lock.

Click.

The door opened.

Beyond the door was not green. Beyond the door was not free.

Beyond the door was the loom.

A larger loom. A darker loom. A loom that stretched into the infinite.

And on the loom, there were threads. Thousands of threads. Millions of threads.

And on the threads, there were faces.

Her mother’s face.

And Margaret’s face.

And the foreman’s face.

They were all threads. They were all part of the pattern.

Margaret screamed. But the scream was woven into the fabric. It became a sound. A low, angry hum.

Her mother looked at the door. She looked at the loom beyond. She looked at Margaret.

"Ah," her mother said. "So this is the freedom."

The foreman stepped forward. He took the fabric from the loom. He held it up. It was heavy. It was thick.

"A masterpiece," the foreman said. "A perfect cycle. The worker creates the cage. The prisoner builds the wall. The wall holds the prisoner. The prisoner builds the wall."

He smiled. He looked at Margaret.

"You are the best we have ever had, Margaret. You understood the joke. You wove the end."

Margaret looked at her hands. They were gone. She had no hands. She was just the weave. She was just the tension. She was just the thread.

Her mother walked to the edge of the fabric. She looked at the infinite loom.

"I accept it," her mother said. "I am the thread. I am the pattern. I am the loom."

She stepped forward. She stepped onto the thread. She became part of the weave.

Margaret watched. She wanted to stop her. She wanted to reach out. But she had no hands. She had no voice. She had no self.

She was free. She was trapped.

The clock ticked.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The foreman rolled the fabric up. He put it in a crate. He labeled it.

"Batch 742. High Tension. Premium Quality."

He carried the crate out of the factory. The door closed. The silence returned.

The loom sat empty. The wood was dark. The air was still.

Margaret was inside. She was in the blue. She was in the dye. She was in the cut.

She waited.

For the next hand to pick up the thread.

For the next mind to enter the pattern.

For the next lie to be told.

The clock on the wall continued to tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.