The fog tasted of iron.

Miles held his breath.

The air was thick. Wet. It clung to his skin.

He stood on the platform. The train had left.

Or had it?

The tracks vanished into the gray.

No smoke. No steam.

Just silence.

A heavy, industrial silence.

Miles looked at his hands.

They were shaking.

Not from cold.

From fear.

He had come for the light.

That was the lie.

He had come for his father.

Arthur had disappeared.

Three days ago.

The factory gates were locked.

The workers said nothing.

They only watched.

Their eyes were flat.

Dead.

Miles turned away.

He walked.

The road was paved.

Black.

It stretched out.

Into the dark.

He walked until his legs burned.

The fog lifted.

Just a little.

He saw a door.

It stood alone.

In the field.

No house.

No frame.

Just a door.

Red.

Bright.

It hummed.

A low vibration.

Miles stopped.

He felt a pull.

In his chest.

A tug.

Like a fishhook.

He stepped forward.

The fog thickened.

It swallowed him.

He pushed against it.

His lungs burned.

He kept going.

He did not know why.

He only knew he had to.

The door was closer.

It was warm.

He touched it.

The wood was soft.

Like flesh.

It opened.

Inward.

Into nothing.

He stepped through.

The world changed.

The gray was gone.

The sky was black.

Stars.

Millions of them.

Cold.

Bright.

The ground was glass.

Perfectly smooth.

Miles looked down.

He saw his reflection.

But it was wrong.

The face in the glass was older.

Wrinkled.

Sad.

It smiled.

Miles did not smile back.

He looked up.

A figure stood ahead.

Tall.

Thin.

Wearing a coat of dust.

It was the Keeper.

Or so it seemed.

The figure did not move.

It waited.

Miles walked toward it.

His footsteps made no sound.

The glass floor reflected the stars.

A galaxy under his feet.

He felt small.

Infinitely small.

"Who are you?" Miles asked.

His voice was thin.

It faded quickly.

The figure did not answer.

It raised a hand.

It pointed.

To the left.

Miles looked.

There was a path.

It wound through the dark.

It glowed.

A pale, soft light.

White.

Blue.

It pulsed.

Like a heartbeat.

Miles looked back.

The figure was gone.

Only the dust remained.

It settled on the glass.

Miles felt a pang.

A deep, aching pain.

He knew that path.

He had seen it before.

In his dreams.

Since childhood.

He had always followed it.

Until the door closed.

Until he forgot.

He took a step.

The light beckoned.

He walked.

The path was long.

It twisted.

It turned.

Miles did not look back.

He could not.

To look back was to lose the way.

He walked for hours.

Or days.

Time did not exist here.

The stars burned on.

The light pulsed on.

Miles felt his body change.

The pain in his legs faded.

The fear in his chest vanished.

He felt light.

Hollow.

Empty.

He was becoming the path.

He was becoming the light.

He stopped.

He was at the end.

The light was a door.

Like the first one.

But bigger.

Wider.

It opened.

Miles stepped through.

He was in a room.

Small.

Square.

Walls of white stone.

A single chair.

In the center.

His father sat there.

Arthur.

He was alive.

Or he seemed to be.

He was old.

Very old.

His hair was white.

His eyes were closed.

He breathed.

Slowly.

Miles ran to him.

He fell to his knees.

He touched his father’s face.

It was cold.

"I'm here," Miles said.

"Father. I found you."

Arthur did not open his eyes.

He did not move.

He was still.

Miles cried.

Tears fell on the stone.

They vanished.

"Tell me," Miles whispered.

"What happened?"

"Where are they?"

"Where is the factory?"

Arthur’s mouth moved.

No sound came out.

Miles leaned closer.

He heard a whisper.

It was not words.

It was a hum.

The same hum as the door.

Miles pulled back.

He looked around the room.

There were no windows.

No doors.

Just the white walls.

And the chair.

And his father.

And the light.

The light came from nowhere.

It filled the room.

It filled Miles.

He felt it in his bones.

It was warm.

It was kind.

It was lonely.

"Let me go," Miles said.

"I will take you home."

Arthur’s eyes opened.

They were not eyes.

They were holes.

Black.

Deep.

Miles recoiled.

He fell backward.

He hit the wall.

The pain was sharp.

Real.

He looked at his father.

The black holes stared at him.

"Home," Arthur said.

The voice was Miles’s own.

"Home is here."

"No," Miles said.

"This is a dream."

"This is a trap."

"Let me go."

Arthur smiled.

It was a cruel smile.

"Nothing is trapped," Arthur said.

"Nothing is lost."

"Only changed."

Miles stood up.

His legs trembled.

He looked at the door.

It was gone.

The wall was solid.

He pounded on it.

His fists bled.

The blood ran down the stone.

It did not stain.

It evaporated.

"Open," he screamed.

"Let me out."

The room shook.

The stars outside the glass floor seemed to swirl.

Miles fell to his knees again.

He was tired.

So tired.

He wanted to sleep.

He wanted to rest.

He wanted to be with his father.

He looked at Arthur.

His father was watching him.

Waiting.

Miles understood.

He had never wanted to leave.

He had wanted to stay.

He had wanted to be part of the light.

He had wanted to be safe.

From the world.

From the noise.

From the pain.

He had wanted to be alone.

With his father.

Forever.

He looked at the black holes in his father’s face.

He saw his own reflection.

He saw his own fear.

He saw his own selfishness.

He had brought his father here.

In his mind.

In his heart.

He had trapped him.

With his love.

With his need.

With his refusal to let go.

Miles closed his eyes.

He breathed.

In.

Out.

The light dimmed.

The room grew cold.

He opened his eyes.

His father was gone.

The chair was empty.

The walls were cracking.

White dust fell.

Like snow.

Miles stood up.

He walked to the center.

He placed his hand on the floor.

He pushed.

Not with his hand.

With his heart.

With his will.

He let go.

He let go of the need.

He let go of the fear.

He let go of his father.

The room shattered.

Glass flew.

Stars exploded.

Miles fell.

He fell through the dark.

Through the fog.

Through the gray.

He hit the ground.

Hard.

He lay on the paved road.

The night air was cold.

Sharp.

He smelled rain.

He smelled earth.

He smelled life.

He opened his eyes.

He was on the platform.

The train was there.

Smoke billowed.

Steam hissed.

The clock ticked.

Miles sat up.

His clothes were wet.

His hands were clean.

No blood.

No dirt.

He looked around.

The fog was lifting.

The sun was rising.

Pale.

Weak.

But real.

A man stood nearby.

He wore a coat.

Brown.

Old.

It was the Keeper.

No.

It was a stranger.

He held a cup of tea.

Steam rose from it.

"Are you all right?" the stranger asked.

Miles looked at him.

He could not speak.

He shook his head.

He stood up.

His legs were weak.

But they held.

He walked to the edge of the platform.

He looked at the tracks.

The train was leaving.

He did not board it.

He watched it go.

The smoke faded.

The sound faded.

The world remained.

Miles turned back.

The stranger was gone.

Only the cup remained.

On the bench.

Miles picked it up.

It was warm.

He drank.

It tasted of iron.

And hope.

He walked away.

Into the morning.

The fog cleared.

The path was gone.

But the light remained.

In his eyes.

In his heart.

He was free.

He was alone.

And he was home.