The man stared from the window into the street below. The street was full of shadows, the buildings blurred by a mysterious grey as if they were beginning to lose their solidity. The air itself was grey, particles so finely granulated they were invisible, yet they were there. He was sure of it.

To test his theory, he had collected samples and trapped air in sealed jars. After a number of days a fine grey powder coated the bottom of the jars. He rested his bare arm on the rickety table and by the light of a candle stump examined his skin. The pores were filled with minute grains of grey.

The man was thirty years old or maybe forty. It was hard to tell. He wore a sleeveless vest. He hardly ate and there was not an ounce of fat on him. His face was gaunt. His collar bone, neck, elbows, protruded from their skin. He was like flint, hard and sharp. His body, once smooth like pale marble, was greying.

It was night again. But what did it matter? Night and day were but shades of each other. There was no movement in the street below. The shadow cast by the streetlamp was also blurred, the edges erased. In the end the world would be an endless monotone with nothing moving.

But there had been movement in the street once. A beggar with one leg had sat in a doorway selling lottery tickets. People had stopped to buy them. Then fewer and fewer people came by and the man packed up his tray and limped away. Had he seen him depart? Was it day or night when he left? He couldn’t remember.

The air was still and grey, the street deserted. Far off, a ship’s foghorn sounded from the docks. He recognised this sound and remembered his father had taken him there once. The sound had haunted him. What had he felt then: a restless melancholy? a painful longing? nostalgia? He couldn’t remember. It was just a sound now, passing through the still grey night and fading away.

He filled a cup from a tap. The sink was stained, the pipe rattled. The water looked grey. He held the cup to his lips and drank. Perhaps the grey was inside him, he thought, colouring his vision? Not outside at all. He lay on his thin mattress and watched the candle flame. There was no movement in the air outside, not even a whisper. He closed his eyes and began to sleep.

In the night he woke. He looked around the room. The candle had gone out. Grey shadows covered the walls. Something was different. He got up and walked to the window. Hovering in the street, level with his eye, was a huge grey bird, its wings outstretched. Its eyes were closed and it floated completely motionless, as if suspended on invisible wires. He stared at it in amazement, expecting movement, but it did not move and remained fixed in that one position level with his window.

Was the creature alive or dead? Suddenly it opened a dark eye and looked at him. He gasped and reeled back, knocking into the table. He felt a pain in his chest and lay down again. He pulled his knees up and curled on his side. Then out loud he whispered to himself: “I am alone. I am alone.” This thought struck him with considerable force and resounded for some while inside him until he eventually fell back to sleep.

In the morning the bird had gone. He searched for movement in the street below, a cat or a rat, another person. But the street was utterly empty and grey, faintly darker than the previous day. It would continue to grey, he thought, until day and night became inseparable. He sat by the window, hoping for something to happen. No, not hope. Hope was an emotion. He was empty of all feeling.

Days passed, days of continuous grey and silence. Then one night he woke to a distant sound. Not a ship’s foghorn but something else. Gradually it grew closer and soon he heard voices, shouting, drums and trumpets. He got up and peered out of his window. To his right a great cavalcade appeared at the end of the street. Men bearing flaming torches, women shrieking as they danced, children racing around. A ragged band of musicians played marching music. They all wore revolutionary red caps and scarves. Their faces were aflame.

The man called down from his window. “Who are you? Why are here?” Without stopping a man with a large sword stared up at him. “We’re collecting all those still alive! Come with us before it’s too late.”

The man hesitated. The crowd were wild. Some had begun to smash windows and set fire to buildings. He heard banging on the door below. Soon they would be charging up the stairs. He went into the hallway. It would be better to join them willingly.

He went with the raucous throng, swept up in their cries and wild gestures. He was afraid, yes, he was afraid! From quiet stillness the street had become a raging chaos. He wanted to escape. But he couldn’t go back, he couldn’t return to his grey room. A woman grabbed his hand and danced with him until he was whirling and hollering with the rest.

The woman let go and moved on to dance with someone else. Gradually he slipped to the back of the crowd. A man shoved him forward. “Get a move on!” He rasped. A young boy observed this and saw the man was dazed and confused.

As the procession moved on, the boy joined the man and tugged at him.
“I know the way out of here,” he whispered.
“What d’you mean?” The man asked, straining to hear.
“You have to find the green door.”
“The green door?”
“I’ll show you.”

Suddenly the boy’s father grabbed him and pulled him away, and the man was alone again. The crowd had moved on and he was left on his own. “The green door?” He murmured. He looked around. There was no green door. He slipped into a side street. The raucous din died away and the road began to climb and grow steep.

He kept climbing and felt his limbs stiff and heavy, a lethargy creeping over him..

Then he saw it. A tall white building, a tower without windows standing on its own, and at its foot was a bright green door. He reached the door and banged with his fist. No voice came from within. There was no handle. Perhaps no one was supposed to enter? He pushed and shoved and was about to give up when the door soundlessly eased open.

There was a light in the stairwell and beyond that a spiral stairway.

He entered and began to climb.