It was a noise like a jaw chewing bone.

"Is it the gear again?" I asked.

The foreman, a man named Halloway who smelled of stale coffee and wet wool, didn’t look up from his clipboard. He was standing in the doorway of the control room, his back to me, writing something down with a pen that had a cracked cap. "Maintenance is scheduled for Thursday," he said. "Keep the line moving. I don’t pay you to listen."

I went back to the console. The grinding was rhythmic. It was not a mechanical failure. It was a pulse. I am thirty-two years old. I have been on the night shift for six years. I want the promotion to shift supervisor. I need it. My rent is three months behind, and the landlord has started leaving notes under the door that are less about money and more about eviction notices. The pay for the supervisor is two thousand dollars a month more than mine. It is the difference between eating and starving. It is the difference between staying and leaving.

The room was cold. Not the cold of winter, but the cold of the machine itself, a damp chill that settled in the joints. I pressed my hand against the control panel. The metal was warm. Too warm.

I wrote to Elias that night. He is my only friend. We met in the breakroom ten years ago, two young men with empty pockets and full hearts. Now we are old men in the bodies of the young.

*Dear Elias,*

*The machine is changing. The grinding is different. It sounds like it is waking up. I need the promotion. I need to get out of this room. I am tired.*

*Your friend,*

*Thomas*

His reply came two days later. He was always quick to answer. He worked in accounting, a dry job in a dry building.

*Thomas, it sounds like it’s waking up. You should take a leave. Go to the coast. You look like a ghost in the photos you send. Don’t let the work eat you. It already has.*

I read the letter three times. I folded it into a small square and put it in my shirt pocket. I dismissed it as fatigue. I was tired. Everyone was tired. But the sound didn’t stop.

March 12.

The grinding stopped at 3:00 AM.

The silence fell on me like a physical weight. It was heavier than the noise. I sat in the chair, my hands resting on the armrests, and I waited for the sound to return. It did not. The machine was not broken. It was waiting.

I checked the logs. The previous supervisor, Miller, had not quit. The file said "Resigned," but the date was blank. I went to the locker room. Miller’s locker was still there. The key was in the lock. I turned it. The lock clicked open. Inside were his personal effects. A pair of glasses with a wire frame. A wallet with a photo of a woman I didn’t know. And a note, folded into a tight ball, resting on top of a pair of work boots.

I unfolded the note. The handwriting was shaky.

*Don’t listen to the hum.*

I put the note back. I put the glasses back. I closed the locker. I was terrified. But I stayed. I needed the pay. If I left now, I would lose the promotion. If I lost the promotion, I would lose my apartment. If I lost my apartment, I would be on the street. The math was simple. The fear was simple. I chose the math.

March 20.

The whisper came in the static.

I was adjusting the frequency of the main drive. The dial was sticky. I turned it slowly. The speaker crackled. I heard a voice. It was my own voice.

*Please. Let me out. I am cold. It is so cold.*

I froze. I had not said those words. I had not recorded anything. I checked the tape deck. It was empty. I checked the digital logs. Nothing. But I heard it again.

*Please. Let me out.*

It was my voice, but older. Tired. Desperate. I was not crazy. The machine records and replays. It is a loop of my own fear. I tried to leave. I walked to the door. I turned the handle. It was locked. I pounded on the metal. I shouted for Halloway. No one came. The supervisor’s office was on the other side of the room. The light was on. I could see the silhouette of a man sitting at the desk. I knocked on the glass.

The man did not move. March 28. The supervisor entered.

He did not walk in. He appeared in the doorway. He was not human. He was a construct of the machine’s feedback loop, a mirror of my own desperation. He wore my clothes. He had my face, but the skin was loose, hanging off the cheekbones. His eyes were hollow.

He spoke with my voice.

"You can have the promotion," he said. "All you have to do is stay."

I looked at him. I looked at the control panel. I looked at the door.

"No," I said.

I picked up the metal wrench from the floor. I smashed the control panel. Sparks flew. The machine screamed. It was a sound of tearing metal and breaking glass. The man in my face did not flinch. He just smiled. It was a smile I had never made.

The screaming stopped. The door unlocked. I walked out into the rain. April 2.

The rain was cold. It soaked through my shirt. I walked for an hour. I went to Elias’s house. It was a small house on the edge of town, with a yellow door. I knocked. He opened it. He was wearing a bathrobe. He looked at me with pity.

"You’re late," he said.

I stood there, dripping. "Miller was here," I said. "An hour ago. He’s gone."

Elias looked at me. He did not move. He just looked at me.

"Thomas," he said. "You’re not Thomas."

I tried to speak. My throat was tight. "I am Thomas. I am thirty-two."

"No," he said. "You are fifty."

He closed the door.

April 5.

I stood in the rain. I looked at my hands. They were shaking.

The skin was wrinkled. The knuckles were swollen. I looked in the window of a parked car.

My face was old. My hair was gray. I was not thirty-two.

I was fifty.

I realized I am Miller. I have been the supervisor for years. The "new" employee is my younger self, trapped in the loop. The machine does not kill. It consumes. It eats time. I am the ghost in the machine.

I went to the factory. I did not go in. I stood by the fence.

The building was dark. The lights were off. But I could hear it.

The grinding. It was inside my head now. It was the sound of my own heartbeat.

I wrote to Elias one last time.

*Dear Elias,*

*I am telling you the truth. The machine is hungry. It eats time.

It eats people. It is not a machine. It is a trap.

Run. Do not come to work. Do not answer the door.

Run.*

*Your friend,*

*Miller*

I signed my name. I sat at the desk in the control room. I had walked back in.

I don’t know how. I don’t know when. I sat in the chair.

The grinding started again. It was my heartbeat. I closed my eyes.

I accepted the silence.

April 12.

The letter was found in the trash.

Elias read it. He laughed. He thought it was a joke.

He went to work. The machine grinds. The door locks.

The new supervisor takes his seat. The cycle continues. The machine is patient.

It has all the time in the world.

I am sitting at the desk. The rain is against the glass. The sound is in my head. It is a jaw chewing bone. I am waiting for the door to open. I am waiting for the young man to come in.

He is late. He is always late. But he will come.

He needs the pay. He needs to escape. He is me.

I am him. The machine is patient. It has all the time in the world.

I close my eyes. I accept the silence. The grinding stops.

The silence falls. It is heavy. It is cold.

I am fifty. I am thirty-two. I am no one.

The door opens. The light comes in. I stand up.

I walk to the door. I wait.