The rain hammered the tin roof of the pub. A wet, relentless drumming. Inside, the air hung heavy. Smoke and stale beer. The smell of wet wool. The room was full. Faces blurred in the haze.

Miles stood by the bar. His hands were cold. He held a glass of water. He didn't drink. He watched the door.

"Is he here?" asked a man in the corner.

The voice was low. Rough. Like gravel in a tin.

Miles shook his head. "Not yet."

The man spat on the floor. "He’s late."

"Always is," said another. A woman. She polished a glass. Her movements were sharp. Quick.

Miles felt a tightness in his chest. A knot. He rubbed his throat. It burned. The burn was constant. It had been there for weeks. Worse every day. He ignored it. He focused on the door.

The clock on the wall ticked. Loud. Too loud.

*Tick. Tick. Tick.*

It sounded like a hammer. Hitting a nail.

Miles looked at his hands. They were trembling. He clenched them. The skin pulled tight. The veins stood out. Blue and hard.

"Easy, Miles," said the woman. She stopped polishing. She looked at him. Her eyes were dark. Deep.

"I’m fine," he said. His voice was thin. A reed in the wind.

"You’re pale," she said.

"I’m always pale."

She nodded. She turned back to the glass.

The door opened. Cold air rushed in. It carried the scent of rain and coal. The pub went quiet. Heads turned.

A figure stepped in. Tall. Broad. He wore a long coat. Dark. Damp. He shook the water from his hat. The drops fell on the floor. Puddle.

It was Arthur.

Miles’ heart jumped. It kicked hard against his ribs. A frantic bird.

Arthur looked around. He didn’t smile. His face was stone. Gray. Cold.

He walked to the bar. He didn’t sit. He stood there.

"Arthur," Miles said.

Arthur turned. His eyes met Miles’.

They were flat. Dead.

"Hello, Miles," Arthur said. His voice was smooth. Like oil.

The room was silent. Everyone watched.

"Sit down," Miles said.

Arthur didn’t move.

"Sit. Down."

Arthur sighed. It was a long breath. He slid into a stool.

Miles pulled a chair. He sat. He put his glass down. The water rippled.

"Where have you been?" Miles asked.

"About," Arthur said.

"About where?"

"Here. There. Everywhere."

Miles leaned forward. "I’ve been waiting."

"For what?"

"For you."

Arthur picked up his hat. He placed it on the table. He looked at his hands. He rubbed them.

"I’m tired, Miles," Arthur said.

"You’re always tired."

"Tonight, I’m more tired."

Miles felt the knot in his chest tighten. It squeezed. Hard. He bit his lip. The taste of blood. Copper. Sharp.

"Tell me," Miles said.

"Tell you what?"

"The truth."

Arthur laughed. It was a dry sound. Like leaves skittering on stone.

"Truth is a messy thing," Arthur said.

"I don’t care about messy. I care about the truth."

"You care about your throat, Miles."

Miles froze. His breath caught.

"How do you know that?"

"I can see it."

"I’m fine."

"Liar."

The word hung in the air. Sharp. Cold.

Miles looked down. He saw his reflection in the glass of water. His face was gaunt. The eyes were sunken. The lips were cracked.

"Stop it," Miles whispered.

"I’m not done."

"Arthur, please."

Arthur leaned in. He smelled of rain and something else. Something sweet. Rot.

"I saw you, Miles," Arthur said.

"Saw me where?"

"In the mirror. Last week."

Miles shook his head. "You’re drunk."

"I’m not drunk. I’m awake."

"Go away."

"I can’t."

"Why?"

"Because it’s you."

"What is me?"

"The ghost."

Miles laughed. It was a harsh sound. A bark.

"I’m not a ghost."

"You are. To me. To them."

Arthur pointed to the room. The other patrons. They were watching. Their eyes were hard. Judgmental.

Miles looked at them. They looked back. They didn’t blink.

"Get out," Miles said.

"I can’t leave you here."

"I don’t need you."

"You do. You need to stop."

"Stop what?"

"Digging."

Miles’ hand went to his throat. He touched the lump. It was there. Solid. Real.

"I’m a detective," Miles said.

"You’re a fool."

"I solve things."

"You don’t solve this. This is a curse."

"I don’t believe in curses."

"Neither do I. But I believe in patterns."

Arthur reached across the table. He took Miles’ hand. His grip was strong. Warm.

"Let go," Arthur said.

"I won’t."

"You have to."

"Why?"

"Because if you keep digging, you’ll die."

Miles pulled his hand back. He wiped it on his pants.

"I’m not dying."

"You are."

"Prove it."

Arthur smiled. It was a sad smile. Broken.

"I can’t prove it. I can only show you."

"Show me what?"

"Your end."

Miles looked at the window. The rain had stopped. The sky was dark. Black.

"Let’s go," Miles said.

"Go where?"

"To the river."

Arthur nodded. He stood up. He put on his hat.

Miles stood up. He felt dizzy. The room spun. He gripped the table.

"Are you alright?" Arthur asked.

"I’m fine."

"You’re shaking."

"I’m cold."

"Put on your coat."

Miles put on his coat. It was heavy. Wet.

They walked out. The air was cold. It bit their faces.

They walked through the streets. The cobblestones were slick. The lamps flickered.

They walked to the bridge. It was old. Iron. Rusty.

The river below was black. Still.

They stood on the bridge. The wind blew. It tugged at their coats.

"Do you remember?" Arthur asked.

"Remember what?"

"The night we were young."

Miles looked at the water.

"Yes."

"We promised."

"What did we promise?"

"To find the truth."

"I remember."

"Did we?"

"Yes."

"Are you happy?"

Miles looked at Arthur. Arthur’s face was pale. In the moonlight, it looked like bone.

"No," Miles said.

"Then why do you continue?"

"Because I have to."

"You don’t have to."

"I do."

"Listen to me, Miles."

Arthur grabbed his shoulders. He shook him.

"Let it go."

"I can’t."

"You can."

"If I let go, I lose everything."

"You already lost it."

Miles looked into Arthur’s eyes. He saw something there. Pity. Fear.

"Are you afraid?" Miles asked.

"Of you."

"Why?"

"Because you’re strong. And you’re stubborn. And you’re going to kill yourself."

Miles laughed. It was a wet sound.

"Maybe."

"Please."

Arthur’s voice broke. It cracked. Like dry wood.

"I’m sorry, Arthur."

"For what?"

"For not listening."

"It’s too late."

"No."

"Yes."

Miles stepped back. He moved to the edge of the bridge.

"Get back," Arthur screamed.

Miles looked at the water. It was black. It was deep.

It was quiet.

It was peaceful.

He felt the knot in his chest loosen. It unraveled. Thread by thread.

He felt light.

He felt free.

"Goodbye, Arthur."

"Miles, no!"

Miles closed his eyes. He stepped forward.

He fell.

The air rushed past him. The wind roared.

He hit the water.

It was cold. Ice cold.

He sank.

The darkness swallowed him.

He was alone.

He was still.

He was at peace.

Above, on the bridge, Arthur stood.

He stared at the water.

The ripples spread.

Then they faded.

The water was still.

Arthur took off his hat.

He held it in his hands.

He looked at the dark sky.

A single star appeared.

It was bright.

It was cold.

It was alone.

Arthur put his hat back on.

He turned.

He walked away.

His footsteps crunched on the stone.

He walked into the night.

He did not look back.

He carried the silence with him.

It was heavy.

It was real.

It was his.