The train stops.

You step off.

The air is thick. It smells of coal dust and wet wool. You are in Ashworth. Or what is left of it. The house looms. It is black against the gray sky.

You have been away for three years.

Three years in the cell. Three years counting bricks. Three years waiting for the letter that never came.

You walk toward the door. Your feet do not feel real. The ground is soft. Mud. Always mud here.

A figure stands on the porch.

It is not your father.

It is not your mother.

It is a woman.

She is small. She wears a dark dress. She holds a lantern. The light flickers.

"You are late," she says.

Her voice is rough. Like gravel under a boot.

"You are early," you say.

You do not know why you say it. You do not know who she is.

She looks at you. Her eyes are pale. Blue. Like the ice on the river in January.

"I am Eleanor," she says.

Eleanor.

The name hits you. It is a stone in your chest. You swallow. It does not help.

Eleanor Whitmore.

Your wife.

Or the woman you were to be.

You forget which.

You have forgotten so much.

"Come in," she says.

She does not move.

You do not move.

The wind blows. It whistles through the eaves. It sounds like a dog. A thin, starving dog.

"I have news," she says.

You step forward.

One step.

Then another.

The mud sucks at your boots.

"I have been here," she says. "Waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"For you."

You laugh. It is a dry sound. Like leaves skittering on pavement.

"I am not free, Eleanor."

"Are you?"

She asks it softly.

She steps aside.

The door is open.

The interior is dark. The furniture is covered in sheets. Ghosts in the room.

You enter.

The air is cold. It bites your lungs.

"Where is he?" you ask.

She does not answer.

She closes the door.

The latch clicks.

It is a loud sound.

It echoes.

You turn around.

She is standing by the fireplace. The fire is out. Cold ash.

"Thomas," she says.

His name.

My father’s name.

No.

Thomas is my brother.

Thomas Whitmore.

The one who stayed.

The one who signed the papers.

"He is in the library," she says.

"Is he alive?"

She looks at you.

She does not blink.

"He is here," she says.

You walk toward the stairs.

The wood creaks. It groans. It remembers your weight.

You climb.

Step by step.

The hallway is long. The wallpaper is peeling. Strips of yellow curl in the air. Like skin.

You reach the library.

The door is ajar.

You push it open.

The room is full of shadows.

A man sits in the chair.

He is old.

He is thin.

His hands are in his lap.

He does not look up.

"Thomas," you say.

He moves.

Slowly.

His neck cracks.

He looks at you.

His face is a map of scars.

"Look at me," you say.

"I am looking."

"Did you kill him?"

The question hangs in the air.

It is heavy.

It is sharp.

Thomas smiles.

It is a sad smile.

"Who?"

"Father."

Thomas closes his eyes.

"He died in his sleep," Thomas says.

"Three years ago."

"No."

You step closer.

"He died last week."

Thomas opens his eyes.

They are wet.

"He died because you left," Thomas says.

The words strike you.

They are not loud.

They are quiet.

But they break you.

"He waited," Thomas says. "Every day. He looked at the door. He looked at the road. He waited for you to come back. He waited to die."

"I was in prison," you say.

"I know."

"You knew."

"I watched."

You feel the floor tilt.

You grab the desk.

The wood is smooth. Cold.

"Did you tell them?" you ask.

"Tell who?"

"The police. The men from the house."

Thomas shakes his head.

"No."

"Then why did they come?"

"They did not come for you."

"Then why?"

Thomas stands up.

He is taller than you remember.

He was always taller.

He walked away.

He left you behind.

He took the key.

He took the name.

He took the life.

"They came for the money," Thomas says.

You laugh again.

It is worse this time.

"What money?"

"The inheritance."

"I have no inheritance."

"You have the house."

"I have nothing."

"You have the guilt."

Thomas walks to the window.

The glass is fogged.

He breathes on it.

He draws a line.

He clears the view.

Outside, the yard is empty.

But it is not empty.

You see it.

You see the shapes.

They are moving.

In the shadows of the trees.

They are holding lanterns.

Dozens of lanterns.

Hundreds.

They are coming toward the house.

"Who are they?" you ask.

Thomas does not answer.

"Who are they, Thomas?"

"They are the dead," Thomas says.

You turn to look at him.

He is gone.

The chair is empty.

The room is empty.

You are alone.

You run to the door.

You burst out into the hallway.

The house is silent.

Too silent.

The air is thick.

It presses against your skin.

You hear a sound.

A scratch.

It is at the bottom of the door.

You look down.

A hand.

A pale hand.

It is reaching up.

The fingers are long.

The nails are black.

You step back.

You hit the wall.

You slide down.

You are on the floor.

Your back is against the wood.

The hand pulls back.

It disappears.

The door opens.

Eleanor is there.

She is holding a candle.

The flame is blue.

"It is time," she says.

"What time?"

"The time to go."

"Where?"

"Outside."

You stand up.

Your legs are weak.

You lean on her.

She is warm.

She is solid.

You walk down the stairs.

The house feels different.

It is smaller.

It is breathing.

The walls are pulsing.

You reach the front door.

Eleanor opens it.

The night is there.

It is full of light.

The lanterns are everywhere.

The figures are there.

They are standing in the mud.

They are looking at you.

They are smiling.

You see your father.

He is wearing his coat.

His face is pale.

He is not angry.

He is sad.

He looks at you.

He shakes his head.

No.

You see your mother.

She is holding a bundle.

She is looking at you.

She is crying.

You see Thomas.

He is standing apart.

He is holding a gun.

He is looking at Eleanor.

He is aiming.

"Thomas!" you shout.

He does not hear you.

He pulls the trigger.

The sound is loud.

It is a crack.

It is a break.

Eleanor falls.

She falls into the mud.

The candle drops.

The flame goes out.

The light dies.

The darkness rushes in.

You run to her.

You fall to your knees.

The mud is cold.

It is wet.

It is real.

"Get up," you say.

"Get up, Eleanor."

She does not move.

Her eyes are open.

They are blue.

They are empty.

You look up.

The figures are gone.

The yard is empty.

The house is dark.

You are alone.

You are on the ground.

You are in the mud.

You are free.

The door is open behind you.

You stand up.

You walk into the yard.

You walk past the figures that are not there.

You walk toward the road.

The train is coming.

You can hear it.

The whistle.

The rumble.

The end.

You do not look back.

You do not close your eyes.

You walk.

You walk until the train stops.

You step on.

You sit down.

You close your eyes.

You are in the cell.

You are counting bricks.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

The light comes on.

The door opens.

The guard is there.

"Go," he says.

You walk.

You walk into the light.

You walk into the city.

You walk into the rain.

You are free.

You are alone.

You are home.