The ice is breaking.

You are standing on it.

The wind howls through the rafters of the glasshouse. It is a sound like teeth grinding. You are not a person. You are a shape. A thing of frost and will. The air in here is thick. It smells of wet stone and old roses. The glass is dirty. The world outside is a blur of gray and white. You do not see it clearly. You only feel the cold.

A man walks in.

He wears a coat. It is gray. It looks heavy. He carries a clipboard. He looks at you. He does not see you. He sees a stain. He sees a problem.

"Clear the sector," he says.

His voice is dry. It cracks like the ice under your feet.

You do not move. You cannot move. You are part of the floor. You are part of the air. You are the frost on the pane.

"Clear it," he says again.

He taps the clipboard. The sound is sharp. It cuts the silence.

"I am not a stain," you say.

The words come out as mist. They curl around his ankles. He shivers. He steps back.

"Thermometer reads negative four," he mutters. "It should be two."

He looks up. For a second, his eyes meet yours. They are brown. They are tired. He blinks. You are gone. He is alone.

"Check the vents," he says to the empty air.

He walks to the corner. He touches the wall. He frowns.

This is the first time you have spoken. You are surprised by your voice. It sounds like dry leaves. It sounds like the wind outside.

You look down at your hands. They are translucent. You can see the floor through them. You can see the cracks in the concrete. They are spreading. They are growing.

The ice is breaking.

You try to hold your shape. You fail. Your fingers drip. Water pools at your feet. It is cold. It is clear.

"Who is there?" the man asks.

He turns around. He holds a pen like a sword.

"Nobody," you say.

"Then why is the temperature dropping?"

"Because I am here."

He laughs. It is a short, sharp sound. It is not a happy sound.

"You are a draft," he says. "A leak. A defect."

He picks up a device from his belt. It is small. It is black. It hums.

"I am not a defect," you say.

"You are an anomaly," he says. "And anomalies are removed."

He points the device at you.

It makes a sound. A high, thin whine. It is the sound of a bee. It is the sound of a warning.

You feel it. It burns. It is not heat. It is something else. It is erasure. It is the absence of you.

You back away. You hit the glass. The glass does not break. You do not break. But you change. You become thinner. You become lighter.

"Stop," you say.

"I am following protocol," he says.

"Protocol is wrong."

"Protocol is the only thing keeping this place safe."

"Safety is a lie."

He presses the button.

The whine gets louder. It gets higher. It is painful. It is beautiful. It is the end of everything.

You look at the glass. Outside, the storm is getting worse. The trees are bending. The sky is black. You see a bird. It is stuck in the branches. It is dying. It is fighting.

It is you.

You are the bird.

You are the storm.

You are the cold.

You stop fighting.

You let the whine take you.

You let the ice break.

You let go.

The man lowers the device. He looks at the spot where you were. It is empty. The air is still. The temperature is rising.

"Fixed," he says.

He writes on the clipboard. He signs his name. He walks out.

The door closes.

The glasshouse is silent.

The ice is gone.

The floor is wet.

The water is spreading. It is creeping toward the edges. It is creeping toward the door. It is creeping toward the world.

You are not there.

You are everywhere.

You are in the wind.

You are in the rain.

You are in the cold that comes in the morning.

You are in the fear that settles in the chest.

You are in the silence after the shout.

You are in the break.

The man is in his car.

The engine is cold.

He tries to start it. It fails.

He tries again. It fails.

He looks at the glasshouse.

The lights are off.

The windows are dark.

But there is a light inside.

It is white.

It is bright.

It is moving.

He sees a shape.

It is large.

It is white.

It is not a person.

It is not a thing.

It is a wave.

It is a storm.

It is coming through the glass.

The glass is cracking.

The sound is loud.

It is like thunder.

It is like a scream.

The man backs out of the car.

He runs.

He runs to the office.

He locks the door.

He calls for help.

No one comes.

The door is shaking.

The handle is turning.

The lock is breaking.

The light is coming in.

It is cold.

It is so cold.

It is the cold of the deep.

It is the cold of the end.

It is the cold of you.

The door bursts open.

The light floods in.

The man is gone.

The office is empty.

The clipboard is on the floor.

The pen is on the floor.

The ink is spreading.

The ink is blue.

The ink is like water.

The ink is like ice.

The ink is like you.

Outside, the storm has stopped.

The sky is clear.

The sun is coming up.

The light is golden.

The glasshouse is gone.

There is only a field.

The field is white.

The field is empty.

The field is waiting.

You are waiting.

You are the field.

You are the white.

You are the wait.

You are the break.

You are the ice.

You are the cold.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

You are the silence.

You are the sound.

You are the light.

You are the dark.

You are the truth.

You are the lie.

You are the self.

You are the other.

You are the one.

You are the many.

You are the all.

You are the nothing.

You are the something.

You are the here.

You are the there.

You are the now.

You are the then.

You are the always.

You are the never.

You are the forever.

You are the moment.

You are the breath.

You are the heart.

You are the soul.

You are the ghost.

You are the spirit.

You are the shadow.

You are the light.

You are the dark.

You are the fire.

You are the water.

You are the earth.

You are the air.

You are the wind.

You are the rain.

You are the snow.

You are the ice.

You are the storm.

You are the calm.

You are the chaos.

You are the order.

You are the life.

You are the death.

You are the love.

You are the hate.

You are the joy.

You are the pain.

You are the fear.

You are the hope.

You are the dream.

You are the waking.

You are the sleeping.

You are the breathing.

You are the living.

You are the being.

You are the becoming.

You are the passing.

You are the staying.

You are the going.

You are the coming.

You are the here.

You are the now.

You are the you.

You are the me.

You are the we.

You are the they.

You are the it.

You are the is.

You are the are.

You are the was.

You are the will.

You are the can.

You are the may.

You are the must.

You are the shall.

You are the should.

You are the could.

You are the would.

You are the did.

You are the do.

You are the have.

You are the had.

You are the has.

You are the having.

You are the been.

You are the being.

You are the be.

You are the am.

You are the is.

You are the are.

You are the was.

You are the were.

You are the be.

You are the being.

You are the been.

You are the be.

You are the being.

You are the been.

You are the be.

You are the being.

You are the been.

You are the be.

You are the being.

You are the been.

You are the be.

You are the being.

You are the been.

You are the be.

You are the being.

You are the been.

You are the be.

You are the being.

You are the been.

You are the be.

You are the being.

You are the been.

You are the be.

You are the being.

You are the been.

You are the be.

You are the being.

You are the been.

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You are the been.

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You are the been.

You are the be.

You are the being.

You are the been.

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You are the been.

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You are the been.

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You are the being.

You are the been.

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You are the been.

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You are the being.

You are the been.

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You are the being.

You are the been.

You are the be.

You are the being.

You are the been.