Maren sat on the porch step. The wood was cold. Her hands were still. She looked at the road. The road was empty. The mist came in from the lake. It touched her shoes. She did not move.

"You're late," said a voice.

Maren turned. Thomas stood in the yard. He wore a grey coat. The coat was old. It was frayed at the cuffs. He looked at her. He did not smile.

"I am not late," Maren said. "I am here."

Thomas stepped closer. He smelled of rain. And iron. "You are not here," he said. "You are waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"For the end."

Maren looked down. The grass was wet. A single leaf lay on the step. It was brown. It was dry. It did not belong. Thomas knelt. He picked up the leaf. He held it up. It was black. It was burning. But it did not fall.

"Put it down," Maren said.

"No," Thomas said. "Look at it."

She looked. The leaf was her hand. It was a small, black hand. It was made of smoke. It moved. It reached for her face. She flinched. The hand vanished. The leaf was just a leaf again. Brown. Dry. Dead.

Thomas stood. He brushed his knee. "It gets worse," he said.

"Does it?" Maren asked.

"Always."

They walked to the house. The house was white. It was peeling. The paint was grey now. Like ash. Maren led him in. The floorboards creaked. They knew the way. They had walked it a thousand times. Or perhaps they had never walked it at all. The memory was slippery.

The kitchen was warm. The stove was off. But the air was hot. It smelled of burnt sugar. And blood. Maren poured two cups of coffee. The coffee was black. It did not steam. It was still. Like oil.

Thomas sat. He held the cup. He did not drink. "Did you call him?" he asked.

"Who?"

"Mr. Vane."

Maren shook her head. "I did not."

"You must."

"Why?"

"He knows the price."

Maren looked at the coffee. The surface was flat. A reflection of the window was in it. The window showed the mist. The mist was thick. It was white. It was alive. It pressed against the glass.

"I paid the price," Maren said.

Thomas laughed. It was a dry sound. Like a bone cracking. "You paid the entrance fee," he said. "You didn't pay the rent."

Maren stood up. She walked to the window. The glass was cold. Her breath fogged it. She wiped it with her sleeve. The view outside was blank. The road was gone. The lake was gone. Only the mist. It moved. It breathed. It waited.

"Let it in," Thomas said.

Maren turned. "No."

"Let it in."

"It will take me."

"It is already taking you."

Maren looked at her hands. They were her hands. They were brown. And dry. Like the leaf. She clenched them. They were solid. She felt the nails bite into her palms. Pain was real. Pain was hers.

"I am not leaving," she said.

Thomas nodded. "Good. Then sit."

He sat back down. He held his coffee. He watched her. His eyes were dark. They were deep. Like wells. Maren sat opposite him. The silence was loud. It filled the room. It pressed on her ears.

A knock at the door.

It was soft. One knock. Then another. Then a third.

Maren froze. Thomas did not move. He looked at the door. He sipped his coffee. The liquid did not move. It stayed still.

"Open it," Thomas said.

"I won't."

"He is outside."

"I know."

"He is your brother."

Maren closed her eyes. She remembered. Or she thought she remembered. A boy. A laugh. A game. A fall. The sound of breaking bone. The silence after.

"He is not my brother," Maren said. "He is a thing."

"Things have names," Thomas said.

Maren stood. She walked to the door. Her feet did not make a sound. The floor was silent. She reached for the handle. It was ice cold. She gripped it. She turned it.

The door opened.

The mist poured in. It was thick. It was heavy. It fell to the floor. It pooled. It rose.

A figure stood in the doorway. It was tall. It was thin. It wore a suit. The suit was white. It was clean. Too clean. The face was pale. The eyes were white. No pupils. No iris. Just white.

"Hello, Maren," the figure said. Its voice was soft. It was kind. It was wrong.

"Go away," Maren said.

"I am here to help," the figure said.

"Help?"

"To let you go."

Maren stepped back. The mist swirled around her legs. It was cold. It burned. She could not breathe. The air was thick. It was liquid.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"I am the one who waits," the figure said. "I am the one who listens. I am the one who remembers."

Thomas stood up. He walked to the center of the room. He looked at the figure. He did not look afraid. He looked tired.

"Let her be," Thomas said.

The figure turned its head. It looked at Thomas. "He is part of the cost," the figure said.

"He is free," Thomas said.

"Nothing is free."

"Then take me."

The figure smiled. It was a small smile. It was sad. "You are not the one," it said. "You are the shadow. She is the light."

Thomas looked at Maren. His eyes were wet. He did not speak. He moved his hand. He pointed at the door. At the mist. At the white figure.

Maren looked at him. She understood. She had been waiting. She had been waiting to be saved. She had been waiting for someone to tell her the price was fair. She had been waiting for the door to close.

But the door was open.

The mist rose. It touched her face. It was cold. It was clean. It erased the smell of burnt sugar. It erased the smell of blood. It erased the smell of Thomas.

"I am not afraid," Maren said.

She did not believe it. She was afraid. She was so afraid. Her heart was a hammer. It hit her ribs. It hit her lungs. It hurt.

The figure stepped forward. It did not walk. It flowed. It was water. It was air. It was nothing.

"Maren," it said. "Look at your hands."

She looked. Her hands were gone. They were mist. They were white. They were open.

"Let go," the figure said.

"I don't want to."

"You don't have to."

"I do."

The figure extended its hand. It was white. It was smooth. It was empty. Maren reached out. Her mist-hand met its hand. There was no touch. There was no resistance. There was only the space between.

Thomas walked to the window. He looked out. The mist was everywhere. The road was gone. The lake was gone. The world was gone. Only the white. Only the silence.

He turned back. Maren was gone. The chair was empty. The coffee was still. The cup was full.

Thomas picked up the cup. He drank. It was cold. It was black. It tasted of nothing.

He walked to the door. He opened it. The mist was outside. It was waiting. It was patient. It was kind.

He stepped out.

The mist closed behind him. It was soft. It was warm. It embraced him. He felt his legs. He felt his arms. He felt his face. They were fading. They were becoming light.

He did not fight it. He did not hold on. He let it take him.

The porch was empty. The step was cold. The leaf was gone. The house was silent. The paint was peeling. The road was empty. The mist came in from the lake. It touched the wood. It touched the air. It touched the silence.

It waited.

It always waits.

Maren was there. She was not there. She was the mist. She was the silence. She was the cold. She was the heat. She was the fear. She was the peace.

Thomas was there. He was not there. He was the shadow. He was the light. He was the cost. He was the price.

They were together. They were apart. They were one. They were many.

The door opened. No one was there. The door closed. The lock turned. The key was gone. The key was in the mist. The key was in the air. The key was in the heart.

The heart beat. Once. Twice. Three times. Then it stopped.

The silence was loud. It filled the room. It filled the world. It filled the soul.

Maren looked at the road. The road was empty. The mist came in from the lake. It touched her shoes. She did not move.

She was free.

She was lost.

She was home.

The mist rose. It swallowed the porch. It swallowed the house. It swallowed the name. It swallowed the face. It swallowed the pain. It swallowed the joy. It swallowed the truth.

It swallowed the lie.

It was white. It was clean. It was done.

The story ends. The story never began. The story is the mist. The mist is the story. You are the mist. You are the story. You are the end.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

The air is cold.

The air is yours.