I woke up with the taste of iron in my mouth. Not blood. Just the metallic tang of old pipes. I was standing in the hallway of the Whitmore Building. It was dark. The emergency lights buzzed. A low, yellow hum. Like a trapped bee.

"Where am I?" I asked. My voice sounded thin. Dry.

"You are where you always are, Thomas," a voice said.

I turned. Old Mr. Sterling stood by the elevator. He wore his usual grey suit. The one with the loose buttons. He looked tired. His eyes were red.

"I went to the pub," I said. "I remember the whiskey. I remember the rain."

"You remember what you want to remember," Sterling said. He leaned against the wall. The plaster crumbled slightly under his elbow. "Look."

He pointed. At the window. The glass was not clear. It was fractured. A web of cracks spread across the pane. But it was not broken. It held. The rain outside hit the shards. It splashed. It danced.

"It’s beautiful," I said. I walked closer. My reflection stared back. It was not my face. It was a mask. Pale. Featureless.

"Beautiful?" Sterling laughed. It was a dry sound. Like leaves skittering on pavement. "It is holding together by a thread. One breath. One mistake. And it goes."

I touched the glass. It was cold. It bit into my finger. I pulled back.

"Who are you, Sterling?" I asked.

"Your supervisor. Your friend. Your mirror." He smiled. It did not reach his eyes. "You have been here for a long time, Thomas. Do you not see?"

"I work here. I file reports. I drink coffee. I go home."

"Home?" Sterling shook his head. "Where is home? Look at the walls, Thomas. Look at the cracks."

I looked. The walls were not white. They were grey. Fissured. Like dried mud. Like skin that had been stretched too thin.

"I don’t understand," I said. My heart beat fast. Thump. Thump. Thump.

"You do. You just refuse to." Sterling stepped closer. He smelled of dust and old paper. "Every day. The same day. You wake up. You walk here. You look at the window. You shatter it in your mind. And then you forget."

"I don’t shatter it," I said. "I fix it. I glue it back."

"That is the trap," Sterling said. "You think you are fixing it. You are only delaying the fall."

I looked at the window again. The cracks were spreading. Slowly. Like ice on a frozen lake.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.

"Because you are tired, Thomas. I can see it. You are so tired."

I leaned against the desk. It was cold. Hard.

"I am fine," I said.

"You are lying. We are all liars. That is the game." Sterling sat down. He put his feet up on the desk. It was a rude gesture. But I was too stunned to care.

"Tell me the truth, Sterling. What is the truth?"

He looked at me. His eyes were deep. Dark. Like holes in the earth.

"The truth is that you are part of the building, Thomas. Not the worker. The structure. The glass. The concrete. You are the crack that never heals."

I felt a chill. It started in my stomach. It spread out. To my limbs. To my head.

"That’s not possible," I said.

"Sit down," Sterling said.

I sat. The chair creaked.

"Think about the window," he said. "When you wake up. It is always cracked. Always. You have never seen it whole. Have you?"

I tried to remember. I tried to see a clear pane. A smooth surface. Nothing. Only the web. Only the fracture.

"I remember it being clean," I said.

"Clean is a state of mind," Sterling said. "Shattered is a fact."

I looked at my hands. They were pale. The veins were blue. Dark lines under the skin. Like cracks.

"I don’t want to be a crack," I said. My voice was shaking.

"You are a crack," Sterling said. "And cracks let the light in. Or the rain. It depends on which way you look."

I looked at the window. The rain was heavier now. It drummed against the shards. A rhythmic beat. Ta-ta-ta-ta.

"I can’t keep doing this," I said. "I can’t keep pretending."

"You can stop pretending," Sterling said. He stood up. He brushed the dust from his suit. "But you cannot stop being."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you will not escape. You will not walk out that door. You will not go home. There is no home, Thomas. There is only the building. And you are in it. Forever."

I stood up. My legs felt weak.

"No," I said. "I will leave. I will walk out."

I walked to the door. I grabbed the handle. It was cold. I pulled. It did not move. I pulled harder. My muscles burned. I pulled until my hands slipped.

The door did not budge.

"I told you," Sterling said. His voice was soft. Sad. "It is not a door. It is a mirror."

I turned around. The window was gone. In its place was a wall. Solid. Grey. Fissured.

I looked at Sterling. He was smiling.

"You see?" he said.

I looked at my hands. They were turning. The skin was becoming transparent. I could see the veins. The bones. They were branching out. Like cracks.

"No," I whispered.

"Yes," Sterling said.

I looked at the floor. It was cracking. The tiles were shifting. Falling into the dark below.

I tried to run. I ran toward the elevator. The doors were open. They showed only darkness. I jumped in. I pressed the button for the lobby. Nothing happened. The lights flickered.

"Thomas," Sterling’s voice came from everywhere. It was in the walls. In the floor. In my head. "You are the fracture. You are the pain. You are the thing that holds the building together because it is the only thing that can break."

I fell to my knees. The floor was hard. Sharp. I cut my hands. The blood was black. It spread. It flowed into the cracks.

"I don’t want this," I screamed.

"You cannot want," Sterling said. "You can only be."

The building shook. A deep rumble. Like a growl. The lights went out.

I was in the dark.

I could hear the rain. It was louder now. It was not outside. It was inside. It was in my ears. In my lungs.

I closed my eyes. I saw the window. The web of cracks. My face in the glass.

I opened my eyes.

I was standing in the hallway. The emergency lights buzzed. A low, yellow hum. Like a trapped bee.

"Where am I?" I asked. My voice sounded thin. Dry.

"You are where you always are, Thomas," a voice said.

I turned. Old Mr. Sterling stood by the elevator. He wore his usual grey suit. The one with the loose buttons. He looked tired. His eyes were red.

"I went to the pub," I said. "I remember the whiskey. I remember the rain."

"You remember what you want to remember," Sterling said. He leaned against the wall. The plaster crumbled slightly under his elbow. "Look."

He pointed. At the window. The glass was not clear. It was fractured. A web of cracks spread across the pane. But it was not broken. It held. The rain outside hit the shards. It splashed. It danced.

"It’s beautiful," I said. I walked closer. My reflection stared back. It was not my face. It was a mask. Pale. Featureless.

"Beautiful?" Sterling laughed. It was a dry sound. Like leaves skittering on pavement. "It is holding together by a thread. One breath. One mistake. And it goes."

I touched the glass. It was cold. It bit into my finger. I pulled back.

"Who are you, Sterling?" I asked.

"Your supervisor. Your friend. Your mirror." He smiled. It did not reach his eyes. "You have been here for a long time, Thomas. Do you not see?"

"I work here. I file reports. I drink coffee. I go home."

"Home?" Sterling shook his head. "Where is home? Look at the walls, Thomas. Look at the cracks."

I looked. The walls were not white. They were grey. Fissured. Like dried mud. Like skin that had been stretched too thin.

"I don’t understand," I said. My heart beat fast. Thump. Thump. Thump.

"You do. You just refuse to." Sterling stepped closer. He smelled of dust and old paper. "Every day. The same day. You wake up. You walk here. You look at the window. You shatter it in your mind. And then you forget."

"I don’t shatter it," I said. "I fix it. I glue it back."

"That is the trap," Sterling said. "You think you are fixing it. You are only delaying the fall."

I looked at the window again. The cracks were spreading. Slowly. Like ice on a frozen lake.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.

"Because you are tired, Thomas. I can see it. You are so tired."

I leaned against the desk. It was cold. Hard.

"I am fine," I said.

"You are lying. We are all liars. That is the game." Sterling sat down. He put his feet up on the desk. It was a rude gesture. But I was too stunned to care.

"Tell me the truth, Sterling. What is the truth?"

He looked at me. His eyes were deep. Dark. Like holes in the earth.

"The truth is that you are part of the building, Thomas. Not the worker. The structure. The glass. The concrete. You are the crack that never heals."

I felt a chill. It started in my stomach. It spread out. To my limbs. To my head.

"That’s not possible," I said.

"Sit down," Sterling said.

I sat. The chair creaked.

"Think about the window," he said. "When you wake up. It is always cracked. Always. You have never seen it whole. Have you?"

I tried to remember. I tried to see a clear pane. A smooth surface. Nothing. Only the web. Only the fracture.

"I remember it being clean," I said.

"Clean is a state of mind," Sterling said. "Shattered is a fact."

I looked at my hands. They were pale. The veins were blue. Dark lines under the skin. Like cracks.

"I don’t want to be a crack," I said. My voice was shaking.

"You are a crack," Sterling said. "And cracks let the light in. Or the rain. It depends on which way you look."

I looked at the window. The rain was heavier now. It drummed against the shards. A rhythmic beat. Ta-ta-ta-ta.

"I can’t keep doing this," I said. "I can’t keep pretending."

"You can stop pretending," Sterling said. He stood up. He brushed the dust from his suit. "But you cannot stop being."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you will not escape. You will not walk out that door. You will not go home. There is no home, Thomas. There is only the building. And you are in it. Forever."

I stood up. My legs felt weak.

"No," I said. "I will leave. I will walk out."

I walked to the door. I grabbed the handle. It was cold. I pulled. It did not move. I pulled harder. My muscles burned. I pulled until my hands slipped.

The door did not budge.

"I told you," Sterling said. His voice was soft. Sad. "It is not a door. It is a mirror."

I turned around. The window was gone. In its place was a wall. Solid. Grey. Fissured.

I looked at Sterling. He was smiling.

"You see?" he said.

I looked at my hands. They were turning. The skin was becoming transparent. I could see the veins. The bones. They were branching out. Like cracks.

"No," I whispered.

"Yes," Sterling said.

I looked at the floor. It was cracking. The tiles were shifting. Falling into the dark below.

I tried to run. I ran toward the elevator. The doors were open. They showed only darkness. I jumped in. I pressed the button for the lobby. Nothing happened. The lights flickered.

"Thomas," Sterling’s voice came from everywhere. It was in the walls. In the floor. In my head. "You are the fracture. You are the pain. You are the thing that holds the building together because it is the only thing that can break."

I fell to my knees. The floor was hard. Sharp. I cut my hands. The blood was black. It spread. It flowed into the cracks.

"I don’t want this," I screamed.

"You cannot want," Sterling said. "You can only be."

The building shook. A deep rumble. Like a growl. The lights went out.

I was in the dark.

I could hear the rain. It was louder now. It was not outside. It was inside. It was in my ears. In my lungs.

I closed my eyes. I saw the window. The web of cracks. My face in the glass.

I opened my eyes.

I was standing in the hallway. The emergency lights buzzed. A low, yellow hum. Like a trapped bee.

"Where am I?" I asked. My voice sounded thin. Dry.

"You are where you always are, Thomas," a voice said.

I turned. Old Mr. Sterling stood by the elevator. He wore his usual grey suit. The one with the loose buttons. He looked tired. His eyes were red.

"I went to the pub," I said. "I remember the whiskey. I remember the rain."

"You remember what you want to remember," Sterling said. He leaned against the wall. The plaster crumbled slightly under his elbow. "Look."

He pointed. At the window. The glass was not clear. It was fractured. A web of cracks spread across the pane. But it was not broken. It held. The rain outside hit the shards. It splashed. It danced.

"It’s beautiful," I said. I walked closer. My reflection stared back. It was not my face. It was a mask. Pale. Featureless.

"Beautiful?" Sterling laughed. It was a dry sound. Like leaves skittering on pavement. "It is holding together by a thread. One breath. One mistake. And it goes."

I touched the glass. It was cold. It bit into my finger. I pulled back.

"Who are you, Sterling?" I asked.

"Your supervisor. Your friend. Your mirror." He smiled. It did not reach his eyes. "You have been here for a long time, Thomas. Do you not see?"

"I work here. I file reports. I drink coffee. I go home."

"Home?" Sterling shook his head. "Where is home? Look at the walls, Thomas. Look at the cracks."

I looked. The walls were not white. They were grey. Fissured. Like dried mud. Like skin that had been stretched too thin.

"I don’t understand," I said. My heart beat fast. Thump. Thump. Thump.

"You do. You just refuse to." Sterling stepped closer. He smelled of dust and old paper. "Every day. The same day. You wake up. You walk here. You look at the window. You shatter it in your mind. And then you forget."

"I don’t shatter it," I said. "I fix it. I glue it back."

"That is the trap," Sterling said. "You think you are fixing it. You are only delaying the fall."

I looked at the window again. The cracks were spreading. Slowly. Like ice on a frozen lake.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.

"Because you are tired, Thomas. I can see it. You are so tired."

I leaned against the desk. It was cold. Hard.

"I am fine," I said.

"You are lying. We are all liars. That is the game." Sterling sat down. He put his feet up on the desk. It was a rude gesture. But I was too stunned to care.

"Tell me the truth, Sterling. What is the truth?"

He looked at me. His eyes were deep. Dark. Like holes in the earth.

"The truth is that you are part of the building, Thomas. Not the worker. The structure. The glass. The concrete. You are the crack that never heals."

I felt a chill. It started in my stomach. It spread out. To my limbs. To my head.

"That’s not possible," I said.

"Sit down," Sterling said.

I sat. The chair creaked.

"Think about the window," he said. "When you wake up. It is always cracked. Always. You have never seen it whole. Have you?"

I tried to remember. I tried to see a clear pane. A smooth surface. Nothing. Only the web. Only the fracture.

"I remember it being clean," I said.

"Clean is a state of mind," Sterling said. "Shattered is a fact."

I looked at my hands. They were pale. The veins were blue. Dark lines under the skin. Like cracks.

"I don’t want to be a crack," I said. My voice was shaking.

"You are a crack," Sterling said. "And cracks let the light in. Or the rain. It depends on which way you look."

I looked at the window. The rain was heavier now. It drummed against the shards. A rhythmic beat. Ta-ta-ta-ta.

"I can’t keep doing this," I said. "I can’t keep pretending."

"You can stop pretending," Sterling said. He stood up. He brushed the dust from his suit. "But you cannot stop being."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you will not escape. You will not walk out that door. You will not go home. There is no home, Thomas. There is only the building. And you are in it. Forever."

I stood up. My legs felt weak.

"No," I said. "I will leave. I will walk out."

I walked to the door. I grabbed the handle. It was cold. I pulled. It did not move. I pulled harder. My muscles burned. I pulled until my hands slipped.

The door did not budge.

"I told you," Sterling said. His voice was soft. Sad. "It is not a door. It is a mirror."

I turned around. The window was gone. In its place was a wall. Solid. Grey. Fissured.

I looked at Sterling. He was smiling.

"You see?" he said.

I looked at my hands. They were turning. The skin was becoming transparent. I could see the veins. The bones. They were branching out. Like cracks.

"No," I whispered.

"Yes," Sterling said.

I looked at the floor. It was cracking. The tiles were shifting. Falling into the dark below.

I tried to run. I ran toward the elevator. The doors were open. They showed only darkness. I jumped in. I pressed the button for the lobby. Nothing happened. The lights flickered.

"Thomas," Sterling’s voice came from everywhere. It was in the walls. In the floor. In my head. "You are the fracture. You are the pain. You are the thing that holds the building together because it is the only thing that can break."

I fell to my knees. The floor was hard. Sharp. I cut my hands. The blood was black. It spread. It flowed into the cracks.

"I don’t want this," I screamed.

"You cannot want," Sterling said. "You can only be."

The building shook. A deep rumble. Like a growl. The lights went out.

I was in the dark.

I could hear the rain. It was louder now. It was not outside. It was inside. It was in my ears. In my lungs.

I closed my eyes. I saw the window. The web of cracks. My face in the glass.

I opened my eyes.

I was standing in the hallway. The emergency lights buzzed. A low, yellow hum. Like a trapped bee.

"Where am I?" I asked. My voice sounded thin. Dry.

"You are where you always are, Thomas," a voice said.

I turned. Old Mr. Sterling stood by the elevator. He wore his usual grey suit. The one with the loose buttons. He looked tired. His eyes were red.

"I went to the pub," I said. "I remember the whiskey. I remember the rain."

"You remember what you want to remember," Sterling said. He leaned against the wall. The plaster crumbled slightly under his elbow. "Look."

He pointed. At the window. The glass was not clear. It was fractured. A web of cracks spread across the pane. But it was not broken. It held. The rain outside hit the shards. It splashed. It danced.

"It’s beautiful," I said. I walked closer. My reflection stared back. It was not my face. It was a mask. Pale. Featureless.

"Beautiful?" Sterling laughed. It was a dry sound. Like leaves skittering on pavement. "It is holding together by a thread. One breath. One mistake. And it goes."

I touched the glass. It was cold. It bit into my finger. I pulled back.

"Who are you, Sterling?" I asked.

"Your supervisor. Your friend. Your mirror." He smiled. It did not reach his eyes. "You have been here for a long time, Thomas. Do you not see?"

"I work here. I file reports. I drink coffee. I go home."

"Home?" Sterling shook his head. "Where is home? Look at the walls, Thomas. Look at the cracks."

I looked. The walls were not white. They were grey. Fissured. Like dried mud. Like skin that had been stretched too thin.

"I don’t understand," I said. My heart beat fast. Thump. Thump. Thump.

"You do. You just refuse to." Sterling stepped closer. He smelled of dust and old paper. "Every day. The same day. You wake up. You walk here. You look at the window. You shatter it in your mind. And then you forget."

"I don’t shatter it," I said. "I fix it. I glue it back."

"That is the trap," Sterling said. "You think you are fixing it. You are only delaying the fall."

I looked at the window again. The cracks were spreading. Slowly. Like ice on a frozen lake.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.

"Because you are tired, Thomas. I can see it. You are so tired."

I leaned against the desk. It was cold. Hard.

"I am fine," I said.

"You are lying. We are all liars. That is the game." Sterling sat down. He put his feet up on the desk. It was a rude gesture. But I was too stunned to care.

"Tell me the truth, Sterling. What is the truth?"

He looked at me. His eyes were deep. Dark. Like holes in the earth.

"The truth is that you are part of the building, Thomas. Not the worker. The structure. The glass. The concrete. You are the crack that never heals."

I felt a chill. It started in my stomach. It spread out. To my limbs. To my head.

"That’s not possible," I said.

"Sit down," Sterling said.

I sat. The chair creaked.

"Think about the window," he said. "When you wake up. It is always cracked. Always. You have never seen it whole. Have you?"

I tried to remember. I tried to see a clear pane. A smooth surface. Nothing. Only the web. Only the fracture.

"I remember it being clean," I said.

"Clean is a state of mind," Sterling said. "Shattered is a fact."

I looked at my hands. They were pale. The veins were blue. Dark lines under the skin. Like cracks.

"I don’t want to be a crack," I said. My voice was shaking.

"You are a crack," Sterling said. "And cracks let the light in. Or the rain. It depends on which way you look."

I looked at the window. The rain was heavier now. It drummed against the shards. A rhythmic beat. Ta-ta-ta-ta.

"I can’t keep doing this," I said. "I can’t keep pretending."

"You can stop pretending," Sterling said. He stood up. He brushed the dust from his suit. "But you cannot stop being."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you will not escape. You will not walk out that door. You will not go home. There is no home, Thomas. There is only the building. And you are in it. Forever."

I stood up. My legs felt weak.

"No," I said. "I will leave. I will walk out."

I walked to the door. I grabbed the handle. It was cold. I pulled. It did not move. I pulled harder. My muscles burned. I pulled until my hands slipped.

The door did not budge.

"I told you," Sterling said. His voice was soft. Sad. "It is not a door. It is a mirror."

I turned around. The window was gone. In its place was a wall. Solid. Grey. Fissured.

I looked at Sterling. He was smiling.

"You see?" he said.

I looked at my hands. They were turning. The skin was becoming transparent. I could see the veins. The bones. They were branching out. Like cracks.

"No," I whispered.

"Yes," Sterling said.

I looked at the floor. It was cracking. The tiles were shifting. Falling into the dark below.

I tried to run. I ran toward the elevator. The doors were open. They showed only darkness. I jumped in. I pressed the button for the lobby. Nothing happened. The lights flickered.

"Thomas," Sterling’s voice came from everywhere. It was in the walls. In the floor. In my head. "You are the fracture. You are the pain. You are the thing that holds the building together because it is the only thing that can break."

I fell to my knees. The floor was hard. Sharp. I cut my hands. The blood was black. It spread. It flowed into the cracks.

"I don’t want this," I screamed.

"You cannot want," Sterling said. "You can only be."

The building shook. A deep rumble. Like a growl. The lights went out.

I was in the dark.

I could hear the rain. It was louder now. It was not outside. It was inside. It was in my ears. In my lungs.

I closed my eyes. I saw the window. The web of cracks. My face in the glass.

I opened my eyes.

I was standing in the hallway. The emergency lights buzzed. A low, yellow hum. Like a trapped bee.

"Where am I?" I asked. My voice sounded thin. Dry.

"You are where you always are, Thomas," a voice said.

I turned. Old Mr. Sterling stood by the elevator. He wore his usual grey suit. The one with the loose buttons. He looked tired. His eyes were red.

"I went to the pub," I said. "I remember the whiskey. I remember the rain."

"You remember what you want to remember," Sterling said. He leaned against the wall. The plaster crumbled slightly under his elbow. "Look."

He pointed. At the window. The glass was not clear. It was fractured. A web of cracks spread across the pane. But it was not broken. It held. The rain outside hit the shards. It splashed. It danced.

"It’s beautiful," I said. I walked closer. My reflection stared back. It was not my face. It was a mask. Pale. Featureless.

"Beautiful?" Sterling laughed. It was a dry sound. Like leaves skittering on pavement. "It is holding together by a thread. One breath. One mistake. And it goes."

I touched the glass. It was cold. It bit into my finger. I pulled back.

"Who are you, Sterling?" I asked.

"Your supervisor. Your friend. Your mirror." He smiled. It did not reach his eyes. "You have been here for a long time, Thomas. Do you not see?"

"I work here. I file reports. I drink coffee. I go home."

"Home?" Sterling shook his head. "Where is home? Look at the walls, Thomas. Look at the cracks."

I looked. The walls were not white. They were grey. Fissured. Like dried mud. Like skin that had been stretched too thin.

"I don’t understand," I said. My heart beat fast. Thump. Thump. Thump.

"You do. You just refuse to." Sterling stepped closer. He smelled of dust and old paper. "Every day. The same day. You wake up. You walk here. You look at the window. You shatter it in your mind. And then you forget."

"I don’t shatter it," I said. "I fix it. I glue it back."

"That is the trap," Sterling said. "You think you are fixing it. You are only delaying the fall."

I looked at the window again. The cracks were spreading. Slowly. Like ice on a frozen lake.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.

"Because you are tired, Thomas. I can see it. You are so tired."

I leaned against the desk. It was cold. Hard.

"I am fine," I said.

"You are lying. We are all liars. That is the game." Sterling sat down. He put his feet up on the desk. It was a rude gesture. But I was too stunned to care.

"Tell me the truth, Sterling. What is the truth?"

He looked at me. His eyes were deep. Dark. Like holes in the earth.

"The truth is that you are part of the building, Thomas. Not the worker. The structure. The glass. The concrete. You are the crack that never heals."

I felt a chill. It started in my stomach. It spread out. To my limbs. To my head.

"That’s not possible," I said.

"Sit down," Sterling said.

I sat. The chair creaked.

"Think about the window," he said. "When you wake up. It is always cracked. Always. You have never seen it whole. Have you?"

I tried to remember. I tried to see a clear pane. A smooth surface. Nothing. Only the web. Only the fracture.

"I remember it being clean," I said.

"Clean is a state of mind," Sterling said. "Shattered is a fact."

I looked at my hands. They were pale. The veins were blue. Dark lines under the skin. Like cracks.

"I don’t want to be a crack," I said. My voice was shaking.

"You are a crack," Sterling said. "And cracks let the light in. Or the rain. It depends on which way you look."

I looked at the window. The rain was heavier now. It drummed against the shards. A rhythmic beat. Ta-ta-ta-ta.

"I can’t keep doing this," I said. "I can’t keep pretending."

"You can stop pretending," Sterling said. He stood up. He brushed the dust from his suit. "But you cannot stop being."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you will not escape. You will not walk out that door. You will not go home. There is no home, Thomas. There is only the building. And you are in it. Forever."

I stood up. My legs felt weak.

"No," I said. "I will leave. I will walk out."

I walked to the door. I grabbed the handle. It was cold. I pulled. It did not move. I pulled harder. My muscles burned. I pulled until my hands slipped.

The door did not budge.

"I told you," Sterling said. His voice was soft. Sad. "It is not a door. It is a mirror."

I turned around. The window was gone. In its place was a wall. Solid. Grey. Fissured.

I looked at Sterling. He was smiling.

"You see?" he said.

I looked at my hands. They were turning. The skin was becoming transparent. I could see the veins. The bones. They were branching out. Like cracks.

"No," I whispered.

"Yes," Sterling said.

I looked at the floor. It was cracking. The tiles were shifting. Falling into the dark below.

I tried to run. I ran toward the elevator. The doors were open. They showed only darkness. I jumped in. I pressed the button for the lobby. Nothing happened. The lights flickered.

"Thomas," Sterling’s voice came from everywhere. It was in the walls. In the floor. In my head. "You are the fracture. You are the pain. You are the thing that holds the building together because it is the only thing that can break."

I fell to my knees. The floor was hard. Sharp. I cut my hands. The blood was black. It spread. It flowed into the cracks.

"I don’t want this," I screamed.

"You cannot want," Sterling said. "You can only be."

The building shook. A deep rumble. Like a growl. The lights went out.

I was in the dark.

I could hear the rain. It was louder now. It was not outside. It was inside. It was in my ears. In my lungs.

I closed my eyes. I saw the window. The web of cracks. My face in the glass.

I opened my eyes.

I was standing in the hallway. The emergency lights buzzed. A low, yellow hum. Like a trapped bee.

"Where am I?" I asked. My voice sounded thin. Dry.

"You are where you always are, Thomas," a voice said.

I turned. Old Mr. Sterling stood by the elevator. He wore his usual grey suit. The one with the loose buttons. He looked tired. His eyes were red.

"I went to the pub," I said. "I remember the whiskey. I remember the rain."

"You remember what you want to remember," Sterling said. He leaned against the wall. The plaster crumbled slightly under his elbow. "Look."

He pointed. At the window. The glass was not clear. It was fractured. A web of cracks spread across the pane. But it was not broken. It held. The rain outside hit the shards. It splashed. It danced.

"It’s beautiful," I said. I walked closer. My reflection stared back. It was not my face. It was a mask. Pale. Featureless.

"Beautiful?" Sterling laughed. It was a dry sound. Like leaves skittering on pavement. "It is holding together by a thread. One breath. One mistake. And it goes."

I touched the glass. It was cold. It bit into my finger. I pulled back.

"Who are you, Sterling?" I asked.

"Your supervisor. Your friend. Your mirror." He smiled. It did not reach his eyes. "You have been here for a long time, Thomas. Do you not see?"

"I work here. I file reports. I drink coffee. I go home."

"Home?" Sterling shook his head. "Where is home? Look at the walls, Thomas. Look at the cracks."

I looked. The walls were not white. They were grey. Fissured. Like dried mud. Like skin that had been stretched too thin.

"I don’t understand," I said. My heart beat fast. Thump. Thump. Thump.

"You do. You just refuse to." Sterling stepped closer. He smelled of dust and old paper. "Every day. The same day. You wake up. You walk here. You look at the window. You shatter it in your mind. And then you forget."

"I don’t shatter it," I said. "I fix it. I glue it back."

"That is the trap," Sterling said. "You think you are fixing it. You are only delaying the fall."

I looked at the window again. The cracks were spreading. Slowly. Like ice on a frozen lake.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.

"Because you are tired, Thomas. I can see it. You are so tired."

I leaned against the desk. It was cold. Hard.

"I am fine," I said.

"You are lying. We are all liars. That is the game." Sterling sat down. He put his feet up on the desk. It was a rude gesture. But I was too stunned to care.

"Tell me the truth, Sterling. What is the truth?"

He looked at me. His eyes were deep. Dark. Like holes in the earth.

"The truth is that you are part of the building, Thomas. Not the worker. The structure. The glass. The concrete. You are the crack that never heals."

I felt a chill. It started in my stomach. It spread out. To my limbs. To my head.

"That’s not possible," I said.

"Sit down," Sterling said.

I sat. The chair creaked.

"Think about the window," he said. "When you wake up. It is always cracked. Always. You have never seen it whole. Have you?"

I tried to remember. I tried to see a clear pane. A smooth surface. Nothing. Only the web. Only the fracture.

"I remember it being clean," I said.

"Clean is a state of mind," Sterling said. "Shattered is a fact."

I looked at my hands. They were pale. The veins were blue. Dark lines under the skin. Like cracks.

"I don