"Did you lock it?"

I looked at the door. It was locked. I looked at my father. He was standing in the center of the room. The floorboards creaked under his weight. It was a heavy sound. It sounded like a bone breaking.

"Yes," I said.

He nodded. He did not smile. He never smiled in the cell. He stood there, tall and thin. His shadow stretched across the stone floor. The shadow was longer than he was. It reached the wall. It touched the bars.

The cell was small. The air was thick. It smelled of damp earth and old sweat. It smelled of fear. We had been here for three days. The walls wept. Droplets fell into the cracks. *Tick. Tick. Tick.* It was the only clock we had.

My father held a piece of chalk. It was white. It was small. He held it in his right hand. His fingers were pale. They trembled. He looked at the wall. He looked at me. His eyes were dark. They were deep. They held no light.

"Draw," he said.

"I can't."

"Draw."

I looked at the wall. The stone was rough. It was cold. I walked to it. I touched it. It bit into my palm. I closed my eyes. I waited for the shape to come. It did not come. There was only the dark. There was only the silence.

"Draw, Thomas," he said. His voice was low. It was soft. It cut through the air. It was sharper than the chalk.

I picked up the chalk. My hand shook. I put it to the stone. The chalk squeaked. It was a high, thin sound. It hurt my ears. I drew a line. It was straight. It was white. It stood out against the gray.

My father watched. He did not move. He stood like a statue. He stood like a ghost.

I drew another line. Then another. I did not know what I was making. I just drew. The lines went up. They went down. They crossed. They tangled. It was a mess. It was a web.

"Stop," he said.

I stopped. I held my breath. The chalk was in my hand. It was white dust. It covered my fingers. It was like ash.

My father walked to the wall. He looked at the drawing. He looked at me. He shook his head.

"Again," he said.

I wiped the wall. The white dust fell. It settled on the floor. It looked like snow. It looked like bone.

I started again. This time, I drew a door. It was a simple door. It had a handle. It had a keyhole. I drew the key. I put the key in the hole. I turned it. I opened the door.

My father nodded. He looked at the door. He looked at me.

"This is not a door," he said.

"What is it?" I asked.

"It is a cage," he said.

I looked at the drawing. The door was open. The bars were still there. The cage was still there. I had drawn the cage. I had not drawn the freedom.

"I am sorry," I said.

"Do not be sorry," he said. "Be true."

He took the chalk from me. His hand was steady. His hand was strong. He took the chalk from me. He put it to the wall. He drew a line. It was long. It was straight. It was perfect.

He drew a tower. It was high. It was narrow. It had no door. It had no window. It was a pillar of stone. It stood in the middle of the void.

"This is the truth," he said.

I looked at the tower. It was solid. It was real. It was not a lie. It was not a hope. It was just stone.

"Why did they put us here?" I asked.

"Because we are weak," he said.

"No," I said. "Because we are guilty."

He laughed. It was a dry sound. It was like leaves scraping on the ground.

"Guilty?" he asked. "Of what?"

"I don't know."

"Of love," he said.

I frowned. I did not understand. I was young. I was scared. I did not understand the words. I only understood the fear.

"Who are you?" I asked.

He looked at me. His eyes were clear. They were bright. They were like stars.

"I am your father," he said.

"I know that," I said.

"No," he said. "I am the ghost."

The air changed. The room changed. The walls seemed to shrink. The bars seemed to tighten. The cold moved in. It touched my skin. It touched my bones.

"A ghost?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "I am the ghost in the machine. I am the ghost in the wall. I am the ghost in you."

I looked at the drawing. The tower. The stone. The silence.

"Are you dead?" I asked.

He smiled. It was the first time I had seen him smile. It was a sad smile. It was a tired smile.

"Not yet," he said. "But soon."

The door opened. The light came in. It was bright. It was blinding. Two men walked in. They wore black coats. They had no faces. They had only shadows.

They walked to my father. They put their hands on him. They pulled him away. He did not resist. He let them pull him. He walked with them. He walked into the light.

I did not move. I stood by the wall. I looked at the drawing. The tower was still there. It was still solid. It was still real.

The door closed. The light went out. The dark came back. It was total. It was absolute.

I was alone.

I looked at my hands. They were white. They were covered in chalk. I looked at the floor. The dust was there. It was white. It was like snow.

I walked to the wall. I touched the stone. It was cold. It was hard. It was real.

I remembered the word. *Guilty.* I remembered the word. *Love.*

I picked up the chalk. I did not have any. I had dropped it. I looked for it. It was gone.

I used my finger. I traced the line. I traced the tower. I traced the door. I traced the cage.

The line faded. The stone was smooth. The dust was gone.

I sat on the floor. I pulled my knees to my chest. I wrapped my arms around them. I held myself tight.

The silence was loud. It was deafening. It was a roar. It was a scream.

I waited. I waited for the ghost. I waited for the door. I waited for the end.

The *tick. Tick. Tick.* continued. It was the heartbeat of the room. It was the pulse of the stone.

I closed my eyes. I saw the tower. It was high. It was narrow. It had no door.

I opened my eyes. The wall was gray. It was empty. It was bare.

I was here. I was real. I was alive.

But I was alone.

The darkness pressed in. It pushed against my ribs. It squeezed my lungs. It filled my mouth.

I breathed in. I breathed out. I breathed in. I breathed out.

The chalk dust settled on my cheeks. It was like tears. It was like dust. It was like death.

I looked at the corner of the room. There was a shadow there. It was moving. It was shifting.

I watched it. I did not blink. I did not breathe.

The shadow grew. It became a shape. It became a man. It became my father.

He was standing there. He was looking at me. He was smiling.

"Thomas," he said.

I could not hear him. The sound was far away. It was underwater. It was in a dream.

He raised his hand. He pointed at the wall.

"Draw," he said.

I looked at the wall. The wall was gone. The room was gone. The bars were gone.

There was only the white. There was only the light.

I reached out. I touched the light. It was warm. It was soft. It was like skin.

I drew a line. It was gold. It was bright. It was beautiful.

It was the end.

It was the beginning.

I was the ghost. I was the wall. I was the stone.

I was the silence.

The *tick* stopped.

The *tick* stopped.

The *tick* stopped.

There was nothing.

There was everything.

I was free.

I was lost.

I was home.

The door opened.

The light came in.

I walked out.

I did not look back.

I did not look back.

I did not look back.

The stone was cold. The air was thick. The world was vast.

I walked into the dark.

I walked into the light.

I walked into myself.

The ghost followed.

The ghost waited.

The ghost was me.