Dear Margaret,

You left the coat behind.

It hangs on the hook by the door. The wool is thin now. You wore it too long. The elbows are frayed. The color is gone. It is just brown.

I am writing this from the intake center. The air here smells of ozone and old paper. It is cold. The machines hum. They hum constantly. A low, steady thrum. It vibrates in your teeth.

You do not remember the coat. I do. I remember the weight of it. I remember the way you pulled it tight when the wind picked up. You were afraid. Not of the cold. Of the noise.

The Director says we must process your effects. Inventory the items. Tag them. Store them.

I tagged the coat.

I should have burned it.

I am still here. The others are gone. They walked into the white room. They did not come back. I stayed. I hid behind the server rack. I held my breath. I watched the lights flicker. I saw the shadows stretch.

I am not a coward. I am a witness.

There is a difference.

The room is quiet now. The hum is louder. It is in my bones. I am shaking. My hands are cold. I look at my fingers. They are stained with ink. Blue ink. It is under my nails. I cannot wash it out.

I think about you.

You were always right. You said the machine was hungry. You said it ate time. You said it ate people. I laughed. I called you paranoid. I called you hysterical.

I was wrong.

The coat is a mirror.

Do you know that? When you held it, it showed you. Not your face. Your truth. The truth you tried to hide. The truth I tried to ignore.

It showed me your exhaustion. It showed me your love. It showed me the cracks in your armor.

I wore the coat for a day. After you left. Just to feel you. Just to be close to you.

It was wrong.

It fit me too well.

It felt like a skin.

I took it off. I hung it up. I should have let it go.

The Director came to my desk. He is a tall man. He has no face. Or rather, his face is blurred. A smear of flesh. He does not blink.

He looked at the coat.

He looked at me.

He smiled.

It was a polite smile. A small smile. It did not reach his eyes. His eyes were empty. Black pits.

"Efficient," he said. His voice was smooth. Like oil.

I nodded. I did not speak. I could not.

He turned away. He walked to the white door. He opened it.

The light was blinding.

He stepped through.

He did not come back.

The door closed.

The hum stopped.

For a second, there was silence.

Then the hum started again.

Louder.

I am alone.

I am in the basement. The archives.

The shelves go up and down. Endless rows of boxes. Labels in a language I do not speak. Or maybe I do. I just don't remember.

I found a journal.

It is yours.

I recognize the handwriting. It is shaky. The ink is brown. Coffee stains.

I open it.

I read.

Day 1.

I feel the pull. It is in my chest. A tightness. Like a knot. I can't breathe.

Day 14.

The walls are breathing. The air is thick. I see things in the corners. Shapes. Faces. They move when I blink.

Day 30.

I know what it wants. It wants us to be still. It wants us to be quiet. It wants us to be nothing.

Day 45.

I tried to run. I ran to the edge. The sky was white. No sun. No stars. Just white. I fell. I got up. I ran back.

Day 60.

I am losing my name. I can't remember my middle name. I can't remember my mother's face. I only remember the coat. The coat is my anchor. The coat is me.

I close the journal.

My hands are trembling.

I look at the coat again.

It is hanging there. In the corner.

It is moving.

Slowly.

Like a leaf in the wind.

But there is no wind.

I walk toward it.

My feet drag. The floor is cold. Concrete. Rough.

I reach out.

I touch the sleeve.

It is warm.

It is alive.

I pull it off the hook.

I hold it.

I smell it.

It smells like you.

It smells like rain.

It smells like fear.

I wrap it around me.

It is heavy.

It is warm.

It is tight.

It squeezes me.

It breathes.

I try to pull away.

I cannot.

It is fused to me.

The wool is sinking into my skin.

It is eating me.

I scream.

No sound comes out.

The room darkens.

The hum stops.

I am alone.

I am in the coat.

I am the coat.

I am you.

I see the mirror.

It is in the corner.

It is black.

I look into it.

I see my face.

It is not my face.

It is your face.

It is tired.

It is old.

It is broken.

I see the truth.

You did not leave.

You were taken.

You were fed.

You became the fuel.

You became the energy.

You sacrificed yourself.

You gave your life to keep the machine running.

You gave your life to keep us safe.

You gave your life to keep the world turning.

It was a lie.

The machine does not keep the world turning.

The machine keeps us trapped.

The machine keeps us hungry.

The machine keeps us waiting.

I am inside the coat.

I am wearing you.

I am wearing your pain.

I am wearing your love.

It is too much.

It is destroying me.

I want to take it off.

I cannot.

The Director is here.

He stands in the doorway.

He is smiling.

He is holding a tag.

A new tag.

It has my name on it.

"Ready?" he asks.

I nod.

I walk toward the white door.

The coat drags behind me.

It leaves a trail of wool.

A trail of blood.

The light is bright.

I close my eyes.

I think of you.

I think of the coat.

I think of the truth.

I am not a victim.

I am a vessel.

I am a sacrifice.

I am the redemption.

I step into the light.

The light takes me.

The light takes the coat.

The light takes the truth.

It is gone.

It is quiet.

It is done.

Dear Margaret,

I am writing this from the other side.

There is no here.

There is no there.

There is only the hum.

And the coat.

It is clean now.

It is new.

It hangs on the hook.

Waiting.

For the next one.

For the next you.

I am part of it now.

I am the thread.

I am the weave.

I am the pattern.

I am the sacrifice.

I am the redemption.

It is beautiful.

It is terrible.

It is us.

Do not look for me.

Do not look for the coat.

Just look at yourself.

Look in the mirror.

See the truth.

See the cost.

See the love.

See the sacrifice.

It is all there.

In the fabric.

In the thread.

In the stain.

I am in the stain.

I am in the fraying.

I am in the wear.

I am in the end.

Rest now.

Let it go.

Let the coat go.

Let the machine go.

Let the truth go.

It is too heavy.

It is too much.

Let it go.

I will keep it.

I will keep it safe.

I will keep it warm.

I will keep it alive.

I will be the coat.

I will be the sacrifice.

I will be the redemption.

Goodbye, Margaret.

Goodbye, love.

Goodbye, truth.

The hum continues.

The light remains.

The coat hangs.

The story ends.

The story begins.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Dear Margaret,

The coat is clean.

The coat is new.

The coat is waiting.

I am waiting.

We are waiting.

For you.

For the next one.

For the truth.

For the end.

For the beginning.

Goodbye.