"Look at it, Silas."

I looked. The moth was dead. It lay on the damp stone floor of the cellar, its wings folded like broken paper. I kicked it. It didn’t move. I looked at Arthur. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. He looked thin. Too thin. His eyes were bright.

"Dead?" I asked.

"Dead," he said. "Just as I told you. It comes. It dies. Every night."

I felt a chill. Not from the cold. The air in the cellar was thick. It smelled of wet earth and old iron. I touched the wall. It was slick. I pulled my hand back. I didn't like the feeling.

"Leave it," I said. "I have work to do."

Arthur didn’t move. He just watched me. He always watched. It was his job. Or so the Company said. I wasn't sure if it was a job. Or a punishment.

I went to the shelf. I took out the jar. The glass was cold. I uncorked it. The smell hit me. Sharp. Bitter. Like burnt sugar and rot. I drank. My throat burned. I wiped my mouth. I looked at the moth again.

"Arthur," I said. "Why are you here?"

He shrugged. "Orders."

"Whose orders?"

"Mine."

I laughed. It was a dry sound. Like leaves skittering on pavement. "You always were a liar, Artie."

He smiled. It was a sad smile. I didn't like it.

"The system doesn't lie, Silas," he said. "It just is."

I turned away. I picked up a tool. A small knife. I needed to cut the wire. The wire was tight. I pulled. My hands shook. I hated shaking. I was a man of precision. I was a man of order.

"Stop shaking," Arthur said.

"I'm not shaking."

"You are."

I stopped. I breathed in. I breathed out. I cut the wire. It snapped. I dropped it. It clattered on the stone.

"Good," Arthur said.

I picked it up. I held it in my hand. It was warm. Strange. Metal shouldn't be warm. I looked at Arthur. He was staring at the wire.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Knowledge," he said.

I frowned. "I don't know what you mean."

"You know everything, Silas. That is the curse."

I dropped the wire. I backed away. I hit the shelf. The jar fell. It broke. The liquid spilled. It spread like a dark stain. I watched it creep. It touched the moth's wing. The wing twitched.

I froze.

Arthur didn't move. He just watched.

"The moth," I whispered. "It's dead."

"Yes."

"It twitched."

"Did it?"

I looked. It was still. I looked again. It was still. I rubbed my eyes. I felt dizzy. The smell of the spilled liquid was overwhelming. It stung my nose. It stung my eyes.

"Arthur," I said. "I need to go."

"Where?"

"Up."

"Up is down," he said.

I pushed past him. He didn't stop me. I ran to the stairs. The stone steps were cold. I climbed. One step. Two steps. Three. My heart was pounding. It thumped in my ears. I reached the top. I opened the door.

The light was bright. Too bright. I squinted. I was in the hallway. The house was quiet. The walls were white. They were too white. I walked to the window. I looked out.

The yard was empty. The grass was green. It was too green. It looked painted. I looked at the sky. It was gray. Flat. There were no clouds. No birds. Nothing.

I turned back. The door was open. The cellar was dark. A shadow stood in the doorway. It was Arthur.

"You can't leave," he said.

I walked to the door. I grabbed the handle. I pulled. It was stuck. I pulled harder. My fingers slipped. I fell. I hit the floor. It was hard. I gasped for air.

Arthur walked in. He moved slowly. He didn't run. He didn't hurry. He looked at me. He looked sad.

"Why, Silas?" he asked.

"Why what?"

"Why do you fight it?"

"I'm not fighting."

"You are. You always are. You want to know why the moth dies. You want to know why the wire is warm. You want to know why the grass is green."

I sat up. I wiped blood from my lip. I had bitten through it. The taste was metallic.

"I don't want to know," I said.

"You do. That is why you are here."

I looked at him. He was holding something. A small glass jar. It was empty.

"Give me that," I said.

"It's empty, Silas."

"Give it to me."

He held it out. I reached for it. My hand stopped. I didn't take it. I looked at the jar. I looked at Arthur. I looked at the door.

"I don't want it," I said.

Arthur lowered his hand. He put the jar in his pocket.

"Good," he said. "Then you can stay."

I stood up. I felt weak. My legs were soft. I walked to the window. I looked out again. The grass was still green. The sky was still gray. I closed my eyes.

I remembered my mother. She was dead. I remembered her hands. They were soft. She used to sing. I couldn't remember the song. I tried. I opened my mouth. No sound came out.

I looked at Arthur. He was watching me.

"Sing," he said.

"I can't."

"You can. You just don't want to."

I shook my head.

"Sing, Silas."

I opened my mouth. I tried to push the sound out. It was hard. It felt like swallowing glass. I gave up. I closed my mouth.

Arthur walked to me. He put his hand on my shoulder. His hand was cold.

"You are part of it," he said. "The house. The moth. The wire. You are part of it. Do you understand?"

I looked at him. I didn't understand. I didn't want to understand.

"I am tired," I said.

"I know," he said.

I sat down on the floor. The wood was old. It creaked under my weight. I looked at my hands. They were dirty. I couldn't wash them. There was no water.

Arthur sat down next to me. We didn't speak. We just sat. The silence was heavy. It pressed on my chest.

I looked at the window. The light was fading. The gray sky was getting darker. The grass was turning black.

"It's happening," I said.

"Yes."

"What is happening?"

"The end."

I shook my head. "No. Not yet."

"It is now."

I looked at Arthur. He was smiling. It was the same sad smile.

"Tell me a joke," I said.

Arthur laughed. It was a short, sharp sound. "Okay. Why did the moth cross the road?"

I waited.

"To get to the other side," he said.

I didn't laugh.

"Bad joke," I said.

"It's a true joke," he said.

I looked at the floor. I saw a crack in the wood. It was long. It ran from the wall to the window. It looked like a vein.

I touched it. It was warm.

I pulled my hand back. I looked at Arthur.

"It's warm," I said.

"I told you," he said.

I stood up. I walked to the door. I tried to open it. It was locked. I pounded on it. I screamed. No one came.

Arthur stood up. He walked to me. He put his hand over my mouth. His hand was soft. It was cold.

"Shh," he said. "It's over."

I struggled. I pushed him away. I ran to the window. I smashed the glass with my fist. My hand bled. I didn't care. I threw the shards out. I looked down.

The yard was empty. The grass was black. The sky was dark.

I climbed out. I landed on the ground. It was soft. It was like mud. I walked to the edge of the yard. There was a fence. It was high. I couldn't see over it.

I turned back. The house was gone. There was only a hole in the ground. A dark, deep hole.

I looked at my hand. It was bleeding. The blood was black.

I looked at the sky. A moth flew by. It was huge. It had the shape of a man.

I watched it fly away.

I sat down in the mud. I closed my eyes.

I knew the truth. I knew it all along. I was the moth. I was always the moth. I was dying every night. And I was waking up every morning.

I opened my eyes.

Arthur was standing in front of me. He was holding the jar. It was full. It was full of black liquid.

"Drink," he said.

I looked at the jar. I looked at Arthur.

I reached out. I took the jar.

I drank.

It tasted like nothing.

I smiled.

It was over.