Mason didn't remember falling asleep in the chair.
He just woke up.
Back in his house.
Same floorboards.
Same low hum in the walls.
Same smell of wax and ash.
But different.
Quieter.
Like something had ended.
And something else was beginning.
He stood slowly, muscles loose and light. No pain. No tension.
The red candle was gone.
The matchsticks. The notes. The boxes. All gone.
The table was clean.
The house was still.
The mirror in the hallway greeted him.
For the first time in weeks, it showed only his reflection.
No delays.
No doubles.
Just him.
He looked older. Not in the skin. Not in the hair. Deeper than that. In the eyes.
He looked like someone who had survived a thing no one else would believe.
And carried a truth no one else would want.
Outside, the world had resumed.
Birds sang again.
A mail truck passed.
A kid rode his bike past the driveway, humming something off-key.
The sky was blue.
The clouds were lazy.
But Mason stood in the doorway, unsure if he was still allowed to walk in it.
Was he still part of that world?
Had he ever been?
He stepped out anyway.
One bare foot on the concrete. Then the other.
No flame. No voice.
Just air.
Warm, clean air.
He walked to the end of the driveway.
Stood for a long time.
Then kept going.
Block by block.
Street by street.
People passed him.
Some looked.
Some didn't.
One man, walking a dog, paused. Met Mason's eyes.
The man's face twitched—recognition or fear or both.
Then he said, simply:
"You're one of them now."
Mason didn't answer.
Just nodded.
And kept walking.
By noon, the sun changed.
He didn't see it.
He felt it.
The light pressed differently now. Not heavier. Not brighter.
More... aware.
Like it was watching back.
He passed a church. An empty lot. A school. A forest.
And finally, a door.
Just standing there.
Free-standing. No house behind it.
Old wood.
No knob.
No frame.
Just a door in the dirt, humming with memory.
He didn't question it.
He knocked once.
It opened.
Beyond it: the hallway.
Of course.
Black tile. No ceiling. Endless fog.
But this time, there was no fear.
No hesitation.
He stepped inside.
The door closed behind him.
But it didn't disappear.
It became part of him.
Like a truth carried in the spine.
At the end of the hall, a new room waited.
The shelves were empty.
The pedestal was bare.
But on the floor—just one box.
Small.
Velvet-lined.
Unmarked.
He opened it.
Inside:
A candle.
Red.
Unused.
No match this time.
Because he didn't need one.
He reached down.
Touched the wick.
And it lit.
The flame was quiet.
Steady.
Unjudging.
He understood now.
The fire was not to punish.
It was to prepare.
To cleanse.
To test.
To choose.
Mason turned.
Faced the hallway.
And waited.
For the next door.
For the next name.
For the next flame.
Because he was no longer the subject of the fire.
He was its carrier.
And somewhere, far away, someone else woke up at 3:14 a.m.
To find a box on their nightstand.
And inside—
A single note.
"Make them scream."
The End.