The fog presses against the glass.

You are here.

The room smells of iron and wet wool.

"Can you hear it?"

The voice is thin.

It is Thomas.

He stands in the corner.

His eyes are wide.

They do not blink.

You look at him.

You know him.

You have known him for thirty years.

Or maybe three days.

Time is a loose thread here.

It pulls when you tug it.

It snaps when you pull.

You are in the House.

The House is not a house.

It is a lung.

It breathes.

The walls are made of slate.

The slate is black.

It shines with a wet, oily sheen.

The floor is stone.

It is cold.

It bites through your shoes.

You feel the cold in your bones.

It is a good cold.

It is the cold of truth.

Thomas speaks again.

"It is waking up."

You want to say no.

Your mouth is dry.

It feels like sand.

You look at the door.

The door is iron.

It has no handle.

It has no keyhole.

It is sealed.

You came here to find it.

You came here to fix it.

You are a man of tools.

You have hands for work.

But your hands are empty.

They shake.

They always shake.

They shake because of what you did.

They shake because of what you left.

You left the city.

You left the noise.

You left the people.

You came to the House.

The House is in the hills.

The hills are gray.

The sky is gray.

There is no sun.

There is no moon.

There is only the fog.

And the sound.

A low hum.

It comes from the floor.

It comes from the walls.

It comes from inside your head.

It is the sound of the world turning.

It is the sound of gears grinding.

It is the sound of a machine that should not exist.

You built it.

You helped build it.

You were the engineer.

You were the master.

Now you are the slave.

Now you are the ghost.

Thomas steps forward.

His feet make no sound.

He is wearing a coat.

The coat is old.

It is the color of dust.

He looks at you with pity.

Or is it fear?

It is hard to tell.

In this place, fear looks like love.

And love looks like fear.

"Open the door," he says.

"I can't," you say.

"Your voice is a whisper.

"Why?"

He asks.

"Because it is not a door."

He nods.

He knows.

He has always known.

He is the witness.

He is the mirror.

He holds up the glass.

You see yourself.

You see your face.

It is old.

It is tired.

It is full of shadows.

You see your hands.

They are stained with ink.

They are stained with blood.

You do not remember which is which.

The ink is black.

The blood is red.

But here, they are the same.

They are both dark.

They are both wet.

They are both real.

You remember the city.

You remember the smoke.

The factories belched black clouds.

The river ran thick with oil.

You made the machine.

It was to clean the air.

It was to save the city.

You told them it was magic.

You told them it was miracle.

But it was hunger.

It ate the soot.

It ate the smoke.

It ate the light.

It ate the sound.

It ate the time.

And then it ate you.

You are part of it now.

You are the fuel.

You are the fire.

You are the ash.

Thomas watches you.

He does not move.

He does not breathe.

He is still.

He is the stone.

You are the water.

The water flows.

The water changes.

The water becomes the ice.

The ice cracks.

The ice breaks.

You feel the crack.

It is in your chest.

It is in your mind.

It is in the soul.

The hum grows louder.

It is a scream.

It is a song.

It is a warning.

The fog thickens.

It fills the room.

It covers the walls.

It covers the floor.

It covers Thomas.

You cannot see him.

You can only hear him.

His voice is a thread.

It pulls you.

It pulls you to the door.

You walk.

Your legs are heavy.

They are lead.

They are stone.

You walk to the door.

You put your hand on the iron.

It is warm.

It is hot.

It burns.

You do not pull away.

You press your palm flat.

You feel the pulse.

It is strong.

It is fast.

It is alive.

You realize then.

You are not the engineer.

You are not the master.

You are the key.

You are the lock.

You are the door.

You have been the door all along.

You have been holding it shut.

You have been holding it shut for years.

You have been holding it shut out of fear.

You have been holding it shut out of guilt.

You have been holding it shut out of love.

Love for the city.

Love for the people.

Love for the silence.

But the silence is killing you.

The silence is killing the world.

The machine needs to stop.

The machine needs to break.

And you are the hand that must strike.

You look at the fog.

You see shapes.

You see faces.

You see Margaret.

You see Edward.

You see the children.

They are there.

They are waiting.

They are not angry.

They are sad.

They are waiting for you to let go.

You feel the weight.

It is heavy.

It is the weight of your choices.

It is the weight of your mistakes.

It is the weight of your life.

You must drop it.

You must let it fall.

You must let it break.

You close your eyes.

You breathe in.

The air is cold.

It is sharp.

It cuts.

You breathe out.

The air is warm.

It is soft.

It holds.

You open your eyes.

The fog is gone.

The room is clear.

The walls are bare.

The floor is bare.

The door is gone.

There is no door.

There is only space.

There is only light.

A pale, gray light.

It fills the room.

It fills you.

You feel the hum.

It is fading.

It is slowing.

It is stopping.

You feel the release.

It is a pain.

It is a pleasure.

It is a death.

It is a birth.

You are falling.

You are falling up.

You are falling out.

You are falling free.

Thomas is there.

He is solid.

He is real.

He looks at you.

His eyes are bright.

They are wet.

He does not speak.

He does not need to speak.

He nods.

He nods once.

It is enough.

It is everything.

You reach for him.

You touch his hand.

His hand is cold.

It is steady.

It is strong.

You hold it.

You hold it tight.

You hold it until the end.

The light grows.

It grows bright.

It grows white.

It grows blinding.

You see the city.

You see the sky.

You see the blue.

You see the clouds.

You see the life.

It is waiting.

It is patient.

It is kind.

You are ready.

You are ready to go.

You are ready to be.

You are ready to be nothing.

You are ready to be everything.

You let go of Thomas.

You let go of the pain.

You let go of the guilt.

You let go of the self.

You vanish.

You are the wind.

You are the rain.

You are the dust.

You are the air.

You are the silence.

The room is empty.

The fog is gone.

The light is gone.

There is only the stone.

There is only the cold.

There is only the memory.

And the echo.

The echo of a man who chose to break.

The echo of a man who chose to save.

The echo of a man who chose to disappear.

It is a quiet echo.

It is a gentle echo.

It is a final echo.

It lingers.

It lingers in the stone.

It lingers in the air.

It lingers in the heart.

It is a promise.

A distant promise.

A promise kept.

A promise paid.

A promise ended.

The story is done.

The page is blank.

The ink is dry.

The light is out.

The dark is in.

You are gone.

You are here.

You are nowhere.

You are everywhere.

The fog rolls in.

It covers the hill.

It covers the house.

It covers the world.

And then it lifts.

And then it is gone.

And then there is only the sky.

And the sky is blue.

And the sky is free.

And you are with it.

And you are free.

And you are still.

And you are at rest.

And you are home.

And you are gone.

And you are here.

And you are the wind.

And you are the rain.

And you are the dust.

And you are the air.

And you are the silence.

And you are the end.

And you are the beginning.

And you are the nothing.

And you are the everything.

And you are the promise.

And you are the break.

And you are the light.

And you are the dark.

And you are the truth.

And you are the lie.

And you are the life.

And you are the death.

And you are the man.

And you are the ghost.

And you are the friend.

And you are the enemy.

And you are the self.

And you are the other.

And you are the one.

And you are the many.

And you are the whole.

And you are the part.

And you are the center.

And you are the edge.

And you are the start.

And you are the stop.

And you are the now.

And you are the then.

And you are the forever.

And you are the never.

And you are the here.

And you are the there.

And you are the inside.

And you are the outside.

And you are the above.

And you are the below.

And you are the before.

And you are the after.

And you are the between.

And you are the beyond.

And you are the within.

And you are the without.

And you are the within and without.

And you are the within and without and within and without.

And you are the silence.

And you are the sound.

And you are the breath.

And you are the pause.

And you are the inhale.

And you are the exhale.

And you are the life.

And you are the death.

And you are the peace.

And you are the war.

And you are the love.

And you are the hate.

And you are the joy.

And you are the sorrow.

And you are the hope.

And you are the despair.

And you are the faith.

And you are the doubt.

And you are the truth.

And you are the lie.

And you are the light.

And you are the dark.

And you are the good.

And you are the bad.

And you are the right.

And you are the wrong.

And you are the true.

And you are the false.

And you are the real.

And you are the fake.

And you are the solid.

And you are the void.

And you are the full.

And you are the empty.

And you are the full and empty.

And you are the empty and full.

And you are the stillness.

And you are the motion.

And you are the stop.

And you are the go.

And you are the stay.

And you are the leave.

And you are the wait.

And you are the rush.

And you are the calm.

And you are the storm.

And you are the quiet.

And you are the noise.

And you are the soft.

And you are the hard.

And you are the warm.

And you are the cold.

And you are the wet.

And you are the dry.

And you are the clean.

And you are the dirty.

And you are the new.

And you are the old.

And you are the young.

And you are the old.

And you are the beginning.

And you are the end.

And you are the middle.

And you are the edge.

And you are the center.

And you are the rim.

And you are the core.

And you are the shell.

And you are the seed.

And you are the tree.

And you are the root.

And you are the branch.

And you are the leaf.

And you are the fruit.

And you are the flower.

And you are the stem.

And you are the soil.

And you are the water.

And you are the sun.

And you are the rain.

And you are the wind.

And you are the sky.

And you are the earth.

And you are the air.

And you are the fire.

And you are the light.

And you are the dark.

And you are the shadow.

And you are the reflection.

And you are the image.

And you are the idea.

And you are the thought.

And you are the word.

And you are the silence.

And you are the sound.

And you are the music.

And you are the noise.

And you are the song.

And you are the cry.

And you are the laugh.

And you are the tear.

And you are the smile.

And you are the frown.

And you are the joy.

And you are the pain.

And you are the love.

And you are the hate.

And you are the fear.

And you are the courage.

And you are the hope.

And you are the despair.

And you are the faith.

And you are the doubt.

And you are the trust.

And you are the betrayal.

And you are the forgiveness.

And you are the guilt.

And you are the mercy.

And you are the justice.

And you are the truth.

And you are the lie.

And you are the reality.

And you are the illusion.

And you are the dream.

And you are the wake.

And you are the sleep.

And you are the dream.

And you are the reality.

And you are the wake.

And you are the sleep.

And you are the end.

And you are the beginning.

And you are the now.

And you are the then.

And you are the forever.

And you are the never.

And you are the here.

And you are the there.

And you are the within.

And you are the without.

And you are the between.

And you are the beyond.

And you are the silence.

And you are the sound.

And you are the breath.

And you are the pause.

And you are the end.