At first it’s small.

The elevator doors close while he’s still inside the threshold. The pressure brushes the coat. The car descends without registering extra weight.

At work, the badge fails. The reader blinks green for the man behind him, red for him. The turnstile resists, a solid bar against the thigh, then resets.

He speaks. People continue speaking. Voice raised until throat burns.

Steps into traffic.

Cars pass through the place occupied, airflow tugging clothes, heat rippling skin. Drivers maintain speed.

Outside, a freight train passes. Steam vents from the engine, white and loud, filling the air—then thinning, lifting.

Gone.

—Sal