The kettle boiled. I watched the steam rise. It curled like a question. I was tired. My hands shook. I held the mug. The ceramic was warm. It burned my skin. I did not let go.

The room was white. The walls were white. The floor was white. The light was harsh. It came from above. It had no source. It simply was. I sat at the desk. The wood was cold. I placed my hands on it. I waited for the warmth to return. It did not.

Mr. Ashworth stood by the door. He wore a grey suit. The fabric was old. It had frayed at the cuffs. He held a clipboard. He clicked the pen. The sound was sharp. It cut the air.

We have the readings, Thomas, he said.

I nodded. I did not look at him. I looked at the steam. It was thinning. It was disappearing.

The readings are consistent, he said.

I heard him. I felt the words. They were heavy. They landed on my chest. I pressed down. I kept my face still. My jaw hurt. I was grinding my teeth. I had been doing this for years. I was good at it. I was good at being still.

When did it start? he asked.

I looked at the mug. The water was dark. It reflected the light. It was black.

I don’t remember, I said.

His eyes were kind. They were also cold. They saw through me. I knew what he saw. He saw the stain. He saw the rot. He saw the thing that lived in my walls.

The walls, I said.

The walls are porous, he said.

I closed my eyes. I breathed in. The air smelled of dust. It smelled of iron. It smelled of old blood. I breathed out. The air left me. It was cold.

My mother built this house, I said.

She knew the ground, he said.

She knew the ground, I repeated. I said it like a prayer. I said it like a curse. I knew the ground. I had dug it. I had turned it over. I had pulled the roots. I had bled on the soil. I had fed the soil. I had paid for the soil. I had paid with my hands. I had paid with my back. I had paid with my silence.

The machine hummed. It was in the corner. It was black. It was sleek. It had no name. It had no face. It just hummed. The hum was low. It vibrated in my bones. It was a low B-flat. I felt it in my teeth. I felt it in my marrow.

We need to isolate the signal, Mr. Ashworth said.

I looked at the machine. The light on the panel was red. It blinked. It blinked. It blinked. It was a heartbeat. It was my heartbeat. It was not my heartbeat. It was the house’s heartbeat.

I am the signal, I said.

No, he said. You are the receiver.

I laughed. It was a dry sound. It was a crack. It was a break in the stone. I stopped. I looked at him. He was waiting. He was patient. He was always patient. He had time. I did not have time.

My mother, I said.

She is gone, he said.

She is here, I said.

Where? he asked.

In the walls, I said.

He looked at the walls. He looked at me. He did not move. He did not blink. He was a statue. He was a ghost. He was a witness.

I walked to the wall. I put my hand on it. The plaster was smooth. It was cool. I pressed harder. I felt the wood behind it. I felt the nails. I felt the void. The void was deep. It was black. It was hungry.

I remember the first time, I said.

Tell me, he said.

I was seven, I said. The light was coming in. The sun was high. The garden was green. My mother was in the kitchen. She was singing. It was a song I did not know. It was a song of work. It was a song of pain. I went to the cellar. The door was open. The steps were dark. I went down. The air was thick. It was heavy. I could not breathe. I saw the box. It was on the floor. It was wooden. It was nailed shut. I opened it.

What was in it? he asked.

Darkness, I said.

The machine beeped. It was a high tone. It was bright. It cut the silence. The red light turned green.

The signal is strong, he said.

I looked at the green light. It was soothing. It was false. It was a lie. The green light was a trap. I knew it. I had always known it. I had seen it before. I had seen it in the mirror. I had seen it in the eyes of the dead.

I am not the receiver, I said.

You are, he said.

I am the source, I said.

He looked at the clipboard. He wrote something down. He did not look up. He did not care. He was not interested in the truth. He was interested in the data. He was interested in the number. He was interested in the end.

The end is near, he said.

I looked at the door. The door was closed. It was locked. I could hear the lock. It was a heavy sound. It was a final sound. I was alone. I was always alone. I was with her. I was with the thing. I was with the debt.

I paid it, I said.

You paid it, he said.

I paid it in blood, I said.

You paid it in time, he said.

I looked at my hands. They were clean. They were pale. They were young. They were not my hands. They were her hands. They were the hands that had dug. They were the hands that had bled. They were the hands that had held the child. They were the hands that had let go.

I am her, I said.

No, he said. You are the echo.

I am the echo, I repeated. I felt the word in my mouth. It tasted like metal. It tasted like rust. I swallowed it. It went down. It settled in my stomach. It burned. It was hot. It was alive.

The machine hummed louder. The green light flickered. It turned red. It turned green. It turned red. It was rapid. It was frantic. It was dying.

The cycle is closing, he said.

I looked at the steam. It was gone. The mug was empty. The water was gone. The heat was gone. The room was cold. The light was dim. The shadows were long. They stretched across the floor. They reached for me. They grabbed my ankles. They pulled me down.

I did not resist. I let them pull. I let them drag. I let them sink. I felt the floor give way. I felt the void open. It was wide. It was deep. It was black. I fell. I fell into the dark. I fell into the past. I fell into the debt.

I saw her face. It was clear. It was kind. It was sad. She was looking at me. She was smiling. It was a small smile. It was a tired smile. It was a smile of relief.

It is done, she said.

I heard her. I heard the words. They were soft. They were gentle. They were true.

I am free, I thought.

No, he said.

I looked up. He was standing there. He was holding the clipboard. He was writing. He was writing my name. He was writing the end.

You are free, he said.

I looked at him. I did not understand. I did not care. I was tired. I was so tired. I was so heavy. I was so full. I was full of the past. I was full of the blood. I was full of the debt. I was full of her.

I closed my eyes. I felt the darkness. It was warm. It was soft. It was like a blanket. It was like a mother’s arm. It wrapped around me. It held me. It kept me. I did not want to let go. I did not want to wake up. I did not want to be here. I wanted to be there. I wanted to be with her. I wanted to be in the dark.

The machine stopped. The hum was gone. The light was gone. The room was silent. The silence was heavy. The silence was loud. The silence was the loudest thing I had ever heard.

Mr. Ashworth closed the clipboard. He clicked the pen. He put it in his pocket. He looked at me. He looked at the empty chair. He looked at the cold mug. He looked at the wall.

It is clean, he said.

I did not answer. I was gone. I was there. I was everywhere. I was in the walls. I was in the floor. I was in the air. I was in the light. I was in the dark. I was in the silence. I was in the space between the seconds. I was in the pause between the breaths. I was in the gap between the thoughts. I was in the void. I was in the debt. I was in the love. I was in the end.

He turned off the light. The room went black. He walked to the door. He opened it. The light from the hallway spilled in. It was yellow. It was warm. It was real. He stepped out. He closed the door. The lock clicked. The sound was final. The sound was complete. The sound was the end.

I was still there. I was in the dark. I was in the silence. I was in the memory. I was in the echo. I was in the trace. I was in the stain. I was in the truth. I was in the lie. I was in the beginning. I was in the middle. I was in the end. I was in the cycle. I was in the wheel. I was in the turn. I was in the return. I was in the start.

The kettle boiled. I watched the steam rise. It curled like a question. I was tired. My hands shook. I held the mug. The ceramic was warm. It burned my skin. I did not let go.