The banquet hall smelled of roasted lamb and old dust.

I sat at the head of the table.

My hands trembled.

Not from cold.

From age.

The crystal glasses caught the chandelier light.

They spun slow halos.

Gold.

Amber.

Red.

I watched them.

I did not drink.

I could not.

The wine tasted of iron in my mouth.

Always now.

Margaret sat beside me.

Her white hair was a halo.

Her eyes were sharp.

She looked at the wall.

Not at me.

She never looked at me anymore.

She looked through me.

As if I were glass.

As if I were nothing.

The staff moved like shadows.

They cleared plates.

They poured wine.

They spoke in whispers.

I heard everything.

I am a detective.

Or I was.

Now I am the suspect.

The case file is my body.

The evidence is my decay.

Every joint aches.

Every breath is a labor.

The years are a thief.

They take the color.

They take the strength.

They take the name.

I am not James.

I am the shell of James.

The room was full.

Dozens of faces.

Doctors.

Colleagues.

Strangers.

They watched me.

Their eyes were hungry.

They wanted the truth.

They wanted to know if I was still me.

I am the investigator.

I must find the culprit.

The culprit is time.

Time is a traitor.

It feeds on us.

It betrays our trust.

It promises eternity.

It delivers only the grave.

Margaret touched my hand.

Her skin was paper-thin.

Cold.

I pulled away.

I could not bear it.

The touch felt like a wound.

I looked at the door.

It was closed.

Locked.

I must find the way out.

I must find the answer.

The meal began.

The toast came.

They raised their glasses.

They cheered.

I did not raise mine.

I stared at the floor.

The pattern was a maze.

I traced it with my gaze.

I am lost.

I have always been lost.

I sought the truth.

I chased the leads.

I broke the cases.

I thought I was strong.

I was weak.

I was always weak.

The meat was tough.

I cut it.

My knife slipped.

It fell.

Clang.

A sound like a bone breaking.

Margaret flinched.

She looked at me.

Fear in her eyes.

I am dangerous now.

I am a monster.

The monster is inside.

The monster is the clock.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The seconds are knives.

They cut me.

One by one.

I stood up.

The chair scraped.

A shriek of wood.

The room went silent.

Eyes turned.

I looked at them.

I looked at Margaret.

I saw the truth.

It was not in the file.

It was in her face.

She loved me.

Obsessively.

Devotedly.

But she was tired.

She was dying with me.

Her love was a chain.

It bound us both.

I must break it.

I must sacrifice.

I must be the one to leave.

I must be the one to die.

Not in body.

In spirit.

I looked at the door.

The lock was a key.

The key was memory.

I remembered the first night.

The rain.

The dark.

Her hand in mine.

I remembered the last night.

The silence.

The dark.

Her hand away.

I was the detective.

I solved the case.

The culprit was me.

I had been stealing her life.

I had been stealing mine.

I had been hoarding time.

Greedy.

Selfish.

I must give it back.

I must let it go.

I looked at Margaret.

I wanted to speak.

My voice was gone.

It was buried.

Under the years.

Under the guilt.

I stood.

I was tall.

I was broken.

The room held its breath.

I walked to the door.

My steps were heavy.

Lead.

Iron.

Stone.

Each step a death.

Each step a life.

I reached the door.

My hand shook.

I touched the handle.

Cold.

I turned it.

It did not move.

Locked.

I pushed.

I pulled.

It would not open.

The room watched.

Margaret watched.

I was trapped.

I was the suspect.

I was the prisoner.

The time was out.

I looked back.

At the table.

At the food.

At the wine.

At the faces.

I saw the reflection.

In the glass.

My face.

Old.

Wrinkled.

Empty.

It was not my face.

It was the face of the end.

The face of the sacrifice.

I turned back to the door.

I closed my eyes.

I felt the handle.

I felt the lock.

I let go.

I stepped back.

I walked to my seat.

I sat down.

The chair creaked.

I looked at Margaret.

She looked at me.

Her eyes were wet.

She smiled.

A small smile.

A sad smile.

A release.

I smiled back.

I did not speak.

I did not need to.

The truth was there.

In the silence.

In the air.

I picked up my glass.

The wine was red.

Like blood.

Like life.

I drank.

It burned.

It tasted of freedom.

I drank it all.

The glass was empty.

I set it down.

I closed my eyes.

The room faded.

The light faded.

The sound faded.

Only the taste remained.

The taste of letting go.

The taste of love.

The taste of end.

I am not James.

I am the peace.

I am the rest.

I am the quiet.

The years are done.

The thief is gone.

The case is closed.

Margaret’s hand reached out.

She touched my hand.

This time, I did not pull away.

I held it.

Her skin was warm.

Alive.

Mine was cold.

Dead.

We sat together.

In the light.

In the dark.

In the end.

The banquet continued.

The laughter rose.

The glasses clinked.

I was part of it.

I was not part of it.

I was the silence between the notes.

I was the space between the stars.

I was the breath before the word.

I was the peace after the storm.

I was the sacrifice.

I was the redemption.

I was free.

The door remained closed.

I did not care.

I did not need it.

I was where I needed to be.

With her.

With the end.

With the truth.

The clock ticked.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

It was no longer a knife.

It was a lullaby.

It was a song.

It was a farewell.

I listened.

I watched.

I loved.

I died.

I lived.

The light dimmed.

The shadows lengthened.

The world shrank.

To a point.

To a star.

To a memory.

I was the memory.

I was the star.

I was the light.

Margaret’s eyes closed.

She slept.

I stayed awake.

I kept watch.

I was the guardian.

I was the sentinel.

I was the keeper of the flame.

The flame was small.

It was blue.

It was pure.

It burned in my chest.

It burned in hers.

It burned in the room.

It burned in the time.

It burned forever.

The banquet ended.

The guests left.

The staff cleaned.

The room was empty.

But not empty.

It was full.

Full of love.

Full of peace.

Full of me.

I am here.

I am gone.

I am the pale path.

I am the end.

I am the beginning.

The door opened.

A draft.

Cold.

Clean.

I breathed it in.

It tasted of snow.

Of stars.

Of silence.

I did not move.

I did not look.

I was still.

I was still.

I was still.