The door was locked. I checked the latch. It was engaged. The key was in my pocket. I had it. I knew I had it. My hand went to my coat. Empty. I searched the other pocket. Nothing. The cold bit through the wool. The hallway smelled of damp plaster and old rain. I pressed my ear to the wood. Silence. Not the silence of empty rooms. The silence of a held breath.

I am Thomas. I used to be Thomas the architect. I drew lines. Straight lines. Clean angles. Now I draw circles. I walk the same blocks in the city. I count the steps. One, two, three. The pavement is cracked. The cracks form a map I cannot read. I look for the key. I always look for the key. It is the most important thing. It opens the door. The door to the house. The house where she is. Where she is waiting.

The building is tall. Concrete. Grey. It stands against the sky like a broken tooth. I have lived here for three years. Three years since the accident. Three years since I let go. No. Since I let her go. The police said it was an accident. They said I was drunk. They said I fell asleep at the wheel. I do not remember the road. I remember the steering wheel. The vibration. The sound of the wind. Then nothing. Then the hospital. Then the phone call.

I look at the door again. It is Unit 4B. The number is painted in red. The paint is peeling. Like skin. I remember when I painted it. I bought the paint at the hardware store down the street. The clerk, a man with hands like tree roots, watched me mix the color. He said it was a good red. A strong red. I did not care about the strength. I cared about the visibility. I wanted it to be seen. From the street. From the cars. From everyone. I wanted them to know we were here.

She is inside. I know she is inside. The light is on in the window. A yellow square. Soft. Warm. I press my hand against the glass. It is cold. I do not feel the warmth. I only feel the cold. The cold is the truth. The warmth is the lie.

I turn the doorknob. It does not move. I try again. It is stuck. I lean my weight into it. The wood creaks. A sound like a bone snapping. I stop. I listen. Is that a footstep inside? No. It is the wind. The wind is in the pipes. The building breathes. It is an old building. It groans. It settles. It lives its own life, indifferent to the man standing outside in the rain.

I need the key. I need the key. I reach into my pocket again. My fingers close around something. Metal. Cold. Sharp. I pull it out. It is not a key. It is a coin. A dime. It has a hole in the center. I do not know where it came from. I do not know why I have it. I spin it on my finger. It balances. It spins. I watch it fall. It hits the pavement. It vanishes into the cracks. I look for it. It is gone.

I am losing things. I lose my keys. I lose my wallet. I lose my sense of time. Yesterday was Monday. Today is Tuesday. Or is it? The sun is setting. The shadows are long. They stretch across the street like dark rivers. I stand in the shadow. I am hidden. I am invisible.

The light in the window flickers. It goes out. Then it comes back on. I flinch. Who is moving inside? I raise my hand. I knock. One. Two. Three. No answer. I knock again. Harder. The wood shudders. A face appears in the window. Not her face. A stranger. A man. He is old. His eyes are dark. He looks at me. I look at him. We stare. He closes the curtain. The light goes out.

I am alone. I am always alone. The city is full of people, but I am alone. The buildings are full of lives, but I am alone. I walk away. I walk down the street. The rain starts. Fine mist. It soaks my hair. It runs down my neck. I do not wipe it away. The cold is good. The cold makes me feel real.

I stop at a bench. It is wet. I sit. The metal bites my thighs. I close my eyes. I see her. Her name is Eleanor. She had hair like gold. Like sunlight. She smiled a lot. She laughed with her whole body. She was warm. She was the center of my world. I built my life around her. Like a house. Brick by brick. Beam by beam. I was the architect. She was the foundation.

Then the car. The crash. The silence. The waking up. The guilt. It is a heavy thing. It sits on my chest. It makes it hard to breathe. It makes it hard to think. I cannot remember the last six months. I only remember the door. The locked door. The key I cannot find.

I stand up. I walk back to the building. The steps are slippery. I slip. I catch myself on the railing. The iron is cold. I climb up. I am at the door again. Unit 4B. I look at the lock. It is simple. A standard cylinder lock. I could pick it. I used to pick locks. It was a game. A puzzle. I could open anything. But I do not have a pick. I only have my hands. And my memory.

I put my ear to the door again. I listen. There is a sound. A hum. Low. Deep. It comes from the walls. It vibrates in my teeth. It is the building. The pipes. The electricity. It is the pulse of the city. It is the pulse of my life. I am part of it. I am a pipe. I am a wire. I carry the current. But the current is broken.

The light comes on again. I hold my breath. The curtain moves. A shape. A woman. She is wearing a dress. Blue. I recognize the blue. It is the color of her eyes. No. It is the color of the sky in summer. She stands by the window. She does not look at me. She looks out. At the street. At the rain. At me.

I want to call out. I want to say her name. I want to say I am sorry. I want to say I am here. But my voice is stuck. It is in my throat. It is a lump of stone. I cannot move it. I cannot speak. I am mute. I am deaf. I am blind.

The curtain falls. The light goes out. I am in the dark. I am in the cold. I am in the rain. I am in the guilt.

I walk away. I do not look back. I walk to the edge of the city. To the river. The water is black. It moves slowly. It carries the lights of the city. It carries the reflections. They are broken. They are distorted. Like me. I stand on the bridge. The wind is strong. It pushes against me. I lean into it. I let it push. I let it take me.

I think about the key. I think about the door. I think about the house. I built it. I designed it. I chose the materials. I chose the layout. I chose the red paint. I made a mistake. I made a huge mistake. I let the car go. I let her go. I let it all go.

The freedom. That is what they call it. Freedom. I am free now. I am free from the house. I am free from the guilt. Or am I? The guilt is inside. It is in my bones. It is in my blood. It is in the rain. I cannot escape it. I can only carry it.

I look at the river. It is deep. It is dark. It is cold. It is a mirror. I see my face. It is old. It is tired. It is broken. I am not the architect. I am the ruin. I am the collapsed beam. I am the cracked foundation.

I close my eyes. I let the rain wash over me. It is clean. It is fresh. It is new. I open my eyes. The city is bright. The lights are sharp. The buildings are tall. They reach for the sky. They are strong. They are solid. They are safe.

I am not safe. I am not solid. I am not strong. I am fragile. I am thin. I am like glass. One step. One mistake. And I break.

I turn away from the river. I walk back to the building. I have to go back. I have to see the door. I have to check the lock. It is a compulsion. A habit. A curse. I walk fast. My breath is short. The rain is heavy. It drums on my head. It drums on the pavement. It drums on the world.

I am at the door. Unit 4B. The light is on. I do not knock. I do not lean against the wood. I stand back. I look at the keyhole. It is small. It is black. It is a mouth. It waits. It hangs. It hungers.

I reach into my pocket. I feel the coin. The dime. I pull it out. It is wet. It is cold. I hold it up. I look at it. The hole in the center. It is a circle. A perfect circle. Like a wheel. Like a compass. Like a key.

I put the coin in the lock. It does not fit. It is too small. It is the wrong shape. It is a fake. I am a fake. I am a lie. I am a story I tell myself to survive.

I take the coin out. I drop it. It rolls into the dark. I do not look for it. I let it go. I let it sink. I let it disappear.

I put my hand on the doorknob. I do not turn it. I just hold it. It is cold. It is solid. It is real. I am here. I am in the rain. I am in the cold. I am in the city. I am in the life.

The light in the window goes out. The building settles. The pipes hum. The wind blows. I am alone. I am free. I am home.

I turn and walk away. I do not look back. I do not need to. The door is closed. The lock is engaged. The key is lost. The house is empty. The house is full. The house is me.

I walk into the night. I walk into the rain. I walk into the cold. I walk into the dark. I am Thomas. I am the architect. I am the ruin. I am the man who lost the key. I am the man who found the freedom. I am the man who paid the price.

The price is high. The price is everything. The price is love. The price is memory. The price is life.

I pay. I have paid. I will pay.

I walk. I count the steps. One. Two. Three. The cracks in the pavement. The map I cannot read. The city I cannot leave. The door I cannot open. The key I cannot find. The love I cannot keep.

I am free.

I am free.