We were eating the walls. That was the joke. Or perhaps it was the truth. I cannot remember which, not anymore. The flour was gray. The water was cold. My hands were raw.

"You are wasting the grain, Thomas," said the Inspector.

I did not look up. My fingers were deep in the dough. It stuck to my skin. It felt like wet clay. It felt like life.

"I am feeding the men," I said. My voice was dry. It sounded like gravel shifting.

"The men are not here."

They were in the cellar. They were always in the cellar. The town was empty. The streets were wide and silent. The fog rolled in from the river. It swallowed the brickwork. It swallowed the chimneys. It swallowed us.

The Inspector stepped closer. He wore a coat of black wool. It was clean. It was dry. It was a lie.

"The rations are fixed," he said. "One loaf. Per head. Per day."

"One loaf is not enough."

"Then you are hungry. Go ahead. Eat."

I looked at him. His eyes were bright. They were hard. They were the eyes of a man who had never starved. He did not understand. He could not understand. To understand, one must taste the dust. One must feel the hollow ache in the belly. One must know that the stomach is a beast that eats the soul.

I broke a piece of bread. I held it out.

"Eat," I said.

He took it. He chewed. He swallowed.

"It is dry," he said.

"Yes."

"It is tasteless."

"Yes."

He wiped his mouth. He looked at me. There was pity in his face. It was a cold pity. It was the pity of the safe for the broken.

"You are sick, Thomas," he said. "You have lost your mind."

"No," I said. "I have found it."

He turned to leave. His boots clicked on the floor. The sound was sharp. It cut the air.

"I will report you," he said.

"Report me," I said. "Tell them I am a monster. Tell them I am a madman. It does not matter."

He left. The door slammed. The sound echoed. It faded into the fog.

I was alone.

I went to the cellar. The steps were narrow. The air was thick. It smelled of damp earth and old stone. I walked down. My legs were heavy. My mind was clear.

The men were there. There were no men.

There was only the wall.

I pressed my hand against the stone. It was warm. It was soft. It yielded to my touch. It was not stone. It was flesh. It was bread. It was the body of the town.

I had been eating it.

I had been eating it for months.

The first time, it was an accident. I was digging a hole for potatoes. My shovel struck something. It was not rock. It was soft. I pulled out a chunk. It was pale. It was dense. I bit into it. It was sweet. It was rich. It tasted of iron and blood.

I had hidden the rest. I had told no one. I had told myself it was a fungus. A new kind of mold. I had told myself I was a scientist. I was a pioneer. I was saving us.

But I was not saving them. I was consuming them.

The town was not made of brick. It was made of us. The houses were our bodies. The streets were our veins. The fog was our breath. We were not living in the town. We were the town.

The Inspector knew. He had always known. He was part of the wall. He was the mortar. He was the structure that held us in place. He did not want us to eat. He wanted us to build.

He wanted us to be stone.

I climbed back up. The sun was rising. The light was pale. It was weak. It struggled to penetrate the mist.

I walked to the square. The fountain was dry. The cobblestones were cracked. I sat on a bench. The wood was splintered. It was rough.

I thought of my mother. She had died when I was young. She had been thin. She had been quiet. She had fed me when there was nothing else. She had given me her own blood. She had given me her own life.

I thought of my father. He had been a soldier. He had marched. He had fought. He had died on a field. His body had been buried. The earth had taken him. The earth had eaten him.

We are all food. We are all meat. We are all waiting to be consumed.

The Inspector returned. He was not alone. He had brought soldiers. They carried rifles. They wore masks. Their faces were hidden. Their eyes were blank.

"Thomas," the Inspector said. "Step away from the wall."

I did not move.

"Put your hands up."

I looked at him. I looked at the soldiers. I looked at the town.

"You cannot stop me," I said. "You are part of it. You are the wall. You are the hunger."

The Inspector raised his hand. The soldiers raised their rifles.

"Fire," he said.

They did not fire.

The fog thickened. It swirled around us. It touched the guns. It touched the men. It touched the Inspector.

The rifles began to change. The metal softened. The wood darkened. The guns became roots. The soldiers became trees. The Inspector became a pillar of stone.

I watched them change. I watched them solidify. I watched them become part of the town.

I was not afraid. I was calm. I was at peace.

I stood up. I walked to the wall. I placed my hand on it. It was warm. It was soft. It was hungry.

I bit into it.

It tasted of salt. It tasted of sorrow. It tasted of truth.

I knew then.

Knowledge is a curse. To know the nature of the thing is to lose the ability to live within it. To see the wall is to see the prison. To see the food is to see the death.

I had chosen to see. I had chosen to eat. I had chosen to be the consumer and the consumed.

The town grew. The fog deepened. The light faded.

I felt my hands hardening. I felt my skin turning to gray stone. I felt my bones becoming brick.

I did not fight it. I embraced it.

I became the wall.

I am the wall. I am the hunger. I am the silence.

The Inspector is still there. He is the gate. He is the lock. He is the key.

He watches me. He waits for me.

I wait for him.

We are both hungry.

We are both full.

The fog rolls in. It swallows the sun. It swallows the sky. It swallows us.

We are one.

We are the food.

We are the ritual.

The bread is dry. The water is cold. The hands are raw.

We are eating the walls.

That is the joke.

That is the truth.

I do not remember which.

Not anymore.

The town is quiet.

The town is full.

The town is hungry.

I am the town.

The town is me.

The wall is soft.

The wall is sweet.

The wall is mine.

I bite.

I chew.

I swallow.

I am stone.

I am flesh.

I am hunger.

I am full.

The fog remains.

The light fades.

The end is here.

The end is now.

The end is always.

We are eating.

We are dying.

We are living.

We are the golden ritual.

We are the eternal feast.

We are the silent scream.

We are the hollow void.

We are the stone.

We are the bread.

We are the man.

We are the wall.

We are the hunger.

We are the end.

The bread is dry.

The water is cold.

The hands are raw.

We are eating the walls.

That was the joke.

Or perhaps it was the truth.

I cannot remember which.

Not anymore.

The town is empty.

The town is full.

The town is me.

I am the town.

The wall is soft.

The wall is sweet.

The wall is mine.

I bite.

I chew.

I swallow.

I am stone.

I am flesh.

I am hunger.

I am full.

The fog remains.

The light fades.

The end is here.

The end is now.

The end is always.

We are eating.

We are dying.

We are living.

We are the golden ritual.

We are the eternal feast.

We are the silent scream.

We are the hollow void.

We are the stone.

We are the bread.

We are the man.

We are the wall.

We are the hunger.

We are the end.