The hand is gone. You know this. You have known it for three days. It is not severed. It is not burned. It is simply absent, as if the air in the workshop has eaten it. You look at the stump. It is clean. It is pink. It is yours.

You are Silas Vane. You make clocks. Small ones. Ticking things that keep the town of Oakhaven awake. Oakhaven is a place of iron and steam. It smells of coal dust and wet wool. The factory looms over the square like a black beast. You are not a beast. You are a man. You are a worker. You are the best worker.

Your brother, Thomas, is there. Thomas is dead. He has been dead for a year. But he is there. He is in the mirror. He is in the glass face of the clock on the wall. He looks at you with your own eyes. Those tired, grey eyes. You hate him. You love him. You cannot tell which. You love him more. It is a sickness. It is a devotion. It is heavy. It sits on your chest.

The town calls you a saint. They say, "Silas Vane is a good man. Silas Vane gives." You give your hands. You give your time. You give your sleep. You do not give your soul. The soul is locked in the workshop. The soul is the hand.

The hand is the problem.

The foreman, Mr. Halloway, stands in the doorway. He is tall. He is thin. He wears a coat that costs more than your house. He smiles. It is a sharp smile. It cuts the air.

"Silas," he says. "The machine is ready."

You do not look at him. You look at the table. The table is wood. It is scratched. You see the marks. They are yours. You made them. You cut into the wood when you were angry. You cut into the wood when you were sad. The wood remembers.

"It is not ready," you say. Your voice is low. It is rough. Like gravel.

"It is," Halloway says. "We need the final piece. The heart."

You know what he means. The heart is the mechanism. The gears. The springs. The tiny, beating center of the clock. But he means more. He means you.

"Thomas made the plan," Halloway says. "Before he went. He said you would do it. He said you had the strength."

You flinch. You do not want to hear his name. Thomas is the shadow. Thomas is the mirror. Thomas is the thing you cannot kill.

"I am not Thomas," you say.

"No," Halloway says. "You are better. You are silent. You are steady."

He leaves. The door closes. The sound is a thud. A heavy thud.

You stand up. Your legs are weak. You go to the window. The town is there. The smoke rises. It swirls. It looks like fingers. It looks like ghosts.

You look at your left hand. It is empty. You flex the fingers. They move. They are there. They are solid. But they feel wrong. They feel like they belong to someone else. They feel like Thomas.

You go to the machine. The machine is big. It is black. It is cold. It has a place for a hand. A slot. A dark, narrow slot. It is designed for precision. It is designed for sacrifice.

You remember the day Thomas died. The accident. The press. The noise. The silence. You held his hand. It was cold. It was stiff. You did not let go. You held it until your fingers bled. You held it because you were angry. You were angry that he left. You were angry that he took his part of the work. You were angry that he left you alone with the ticking.

You put your hand in the slot.

The machine does not start. It waits. It breathes.

You pull your hand out. You look at the floor. There is a drop of blood. It is red. It is bright. It is alive.

You are not a saint. You are a liar. You are a thief. You stole Thomas’s life. You stole his place. You wore his clothes. You sat in his chair. You spoke his words. You are the mask. The mask is cracked.

The town watches. They are outside. They are silent. They wait. They want the clock. They want the time. They do not care about the hand. They do not care about the pain. They only care about the tick.

You look at the mirror again. Thomas is there. He is smiling. It is a cruel smile. He is proud. He is happy. He has won.

You pick up the chisel. It is heavy. It is cold. You hold it in your right hand. You look at your left hand. The empty hand. The hand that is not there.

You strike.

You strike the table. You strike the wood. You strike until the wood splinters. You strike until your hand shakes. You strike until the blood runs.

The sound is loud. It is sharp. It breaks the silence.

Halloway runs in. He is fast. He is angry.

"What are you doing?" he shouts.

You do not answer. You keep striking. The wood flies. The splinters hit your face. They cut your skin. You do not stop. You are not Silas. You are not Thomas. You are the wood. You are the wood that screams.

Halloway grabs your arm. He pulls you back. You fall. You hit the floor. The machine hums. It is happy. It is hungry.

"You are weak," Halloway says. He spits on the floor. "You are nothing."

You look at him. You do not see a man. You see a machine. You see a gear. You see a part.

You stand up. You wipe the blood from your face. You look at the machine. You look at the slot.

You do not put your hand in.

You walk out.

The town is there. The smoke rises. The sun is setting. It is red. It is blood.

You walk to the bridge. The river is below. It is black. It is deep.

You look at your hands. They are whole. They are yours. They are messy. They are bloody. They are alive.

You think of Thomas. You think of the love. It is not love. It is fear. It is the fear of being alone. It is the fear of being empty.

You are not empty. You are full. You are full of anger. You are full of life.

You jump.

The water is cold. It is shock. It is pain.

You float. You are heavy. You are light.

You look up. The sky is above. It is vast. It is silent.

You do not die. You swim. You swim to the bank. You climb out. You are wet. You are cold. You are alive.

You go home. You enter the workshop. The machine is there. It is still. It is waiting.

You sit down. You pick up the gears. You pick up the springs.

You do not make a clock.

You make a hand.

You make it of metal. You make it of iron. You make it strong.

You attach it to your arm. It is heavy. It is cold. It is yours.

You work. You work through the night. You work until the sun rises.

The town wakes. They see you. They see the iron hand.

They do not speak. They watch. They fear.

You are not a saint. You are a monster. You are a maker.

You hold up the iron hand. You flex the fingers. It makes a sound. A click. A tick.

It is not a clock. It is a heart.

It beats.

You are Silas Vane. You are the hand. You are the machine. You are the town.

The iron hand is warm. It is alive.

You smile. It is a small smile. It is a sad smile.

It is a true smile.