I think I long for something, but I don't know what.

It was something he had been thinking about rather frequently, and it disrupted his focus during the day and prevented him from sleeping at night.

Today, they were studying Vialism. He tried to focus, but now that his intrusive thoughts had rooted themselves in his mind, he barely heard a word that was spoken. Instead of taking notes, he spun the pen across his fingers and stared out the window, his chin in his other hand.

The walls were taller than he remembered. Had they grown larger over the past few years? That couldn't be it. Perhaps another region was building it higher. He was too low to catch a glimpse over the wall today, but he caught sight of the Watcher perched on top, staring at him with its beady eyes, and he quickly returned his attention to the lecture. But after only a few short moments, his mind wandered again, until a grey hand rested on his desk and startled him out of his thoughts.

He instantly froze and slowly looked up in acknowledgement. He met the cloaked Bishop's eyes for a split second before dropping his gaze to the hem of his robe.

"Are you listening?" the Bishop asked softly.

The others in the room had their eyes on him now, and he felt a flutter of nervousness in his chest. He swallowed hard and nodded. "I'm trying, sir," he mumbled. He was afraid to tell the Bishop what he'd been thinking. He was afraid to tell him that today, he was a failure.

"Speak up."

He nodded again and repeated himself. "I'm trying to listen, sir," he said, a little louder.

The Bishop watched him for a long moment, and he began to sweat nervously. He would do almost anything to avoid becoming a disappointment. He didn't want to become like the last man, who had suddenly lost all focus and then disappeared, never to be heard of again. He yearned to make his Bishop proud, just like all of the others in his sector. With the way the Bishop watched him now, it seemed like he was becoming another nuisance.

At last, the Bishop spoke. "Then continue in your efforts. Someday, you will find focus. You all will. Then you will truly be worthy to represent our sector in the Assemblage."

He just nodded once more and avoided looking up.

"And put the pen down. Perhaps that will help."

But he found his fingers felt empty without it, so he put his hands in his lap to hide it.

The others' eyes stayed on him for the rest of the lecture, though not all at once. He stayed staring at the floor, pretending he didn't notice their stares. If he told anyone about these suddenly intrusive thoughts, nothing could stop them from twisting and exaggerating them, and then he could get in serious trouble for something he didn't even understand. He had to banish them by himself. That was the hardest part, especially as he hadn't the slightest idea how to do it.

He glanced up at the chalk board and instantly, three others quickly averted their eyes. He wanted to ask them why they were staring at him. He thought about it for a moment and realized that he really just wanted to ask why. Why was he here? Why did he arrive at these lectures and complete these tasks every day with no thought whatsoever? And why had the Bishop seemed almost threatened by him when he caught him staring out the window? Why silence? Why order? And who was he?

He realized he was staring out the window once again, the questions racing through his mind. He sat up a little taller, but he still couldn't see past the wall. What was out there, beyond the looming walls of Dema? What were they keeping out? What were they keeping in?

Something didn't feel right here. He had never noticed it as strongly before, but now, it wouldn't leave his mind. Something about the incredible focus -

His head suddenly snapped up as he heard the Bishop call his name, more sternly this time. The Bishops rarely called anyone by name. A name was a mark of shame, and he cringed slightly upon hearing his. He knew he was in trouble. But the Bishop only watched him again for another long moment, and then went back to the lecture.

He tried to listen. He really did. But listening suddenly felt tedious and mind-numbing, not to mention the fact that the words were blurry and hard to read, as they usually were. He dropped his eyes down to the pen in his lap, and then to the paper on his desk. He couldn't write here. That would surely alert the Bishops that something was wrong. He couldn't show anyone that he was abnormal. But perhaps if he wrote everything down, his mind would clear and he would be back to normal.

He glanced up at the chalk board to show the Bishop he was trying to pay attention, but now, his mind was far from the lecture. Everyone knew Vialism was mandate. Why must he sit here, week after week, hearing the same words over and over again?

The bell rang, signaling the arrival of lunch hour, he jumped up in surprise. The others stood much quieter, glancing at him as they slowly shuffled to the door. He wanted to take the paper with him, but the Bishop was watching him. Even though he couldn't see a distinct expression on his face, he knew he was disappointed. He felt his cheeks flush slightly in embarrassment, and he shoved his hands in his pockets and followed the others out as quickly as he could.

The cafeteria seemed quieter than usual, and he felt as though everyone had their eyes on him as he sat down at the corner of the table. For the first time, he felt like he didn't belong here. He thought he could hear whispers circulating the room, mocking him and bringing his mistake into the limelight. I can't help it, he wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut and his eyes glued to his tray.

The minutes ticked by like eternities. He squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, barely able to keep his hands still, and finally, the bell rang again and he was the first to stand.

"You haven't eaten," the girl next to him noticed. She rarely spoke to him at all, and he wondered why she decided to now.

"I'm not hungry," he said, ducking his head and walking away, hoping he didn't look too rushed.

He quickly dumped his tray and started for the door. He managed to get out before most of the others, and it was as if a weight lifted off his shoulders. He could finally breathe without worrying about someone watching him.

Where was he assigned now? He couldn't remember, and since he was ahead, he couldn't follow anyone. He wanted to seem like he knew where he was going, so he continued walking straight forward, hoping he'd find his assignment eventually. 

But after only a few minutes of walking, the crowds behind him dispersed, and he found himself alone in the dark hallways. He knew exactly where he was, but he felt entirely lost. And though he was most certainly alone, he could feel eyes on his back, watching his every move. 

They couldn't find him away from his assignment. They'd punish him for sure, even though he hadn't done anything wrong. He shoved his hands in his pockets and to his surprise, his fingers found the cold body of the pen from earlier. He hadn't realized he'd taken it. He knew he should take it back, but at the same time, he found comfort holding it in his hand. The pen would have to stay. 

He picked up his pace, but slowed after only a second as he noticed something he'd never noticed before. He was almost to the courtyard, and though he'd passed this way hundreds of times, he'd never seen this particular door open. He turned his head slightly and looked inside, but only saw a staircase going up, nothing else. Every bit of common sense he had told him to leave. He was already in trouble. Sneaking around would certainly make it worse. 

He suddenly heard a pair of footsteps echoing down the hall behind him, and his heart nearly burst from his chest right then and there. He glanced behind him to make sure nobody was watching, and then he ducked into the passage and shut the door behind him. 

It was darker than he had expected. There was a soft beam of bluish grey coming from the top of the stairs, and it shed barely enough light to illuminate the steps, though he still stumbled a little near the bottom, where it was the darkest. And it was quiet, too. Not the silence he felt at night, when it seemed like the world was crashing down on him. This was a sort of peaceful quiet that calmed his nerves and slowed his racing heartbeat. He wanted it to stay forever. 

His footsteps were soft and scuffed as he slowly ascended, his hand on the wall to keep his balance. Once he reached the top, he paused again, partly in confusion, and partly in awe. 

The room was small, but it didn't feel cramped, even with all the dust, though it did make everything seem a little more out of focus than usual. The window was wide and open just a crack, and ragged curtains swayed gently in the slight breeze. He could almost see over the wall from here, and for a moment, he was able to ignore the rest of the room and focus on one thing. He ran to the window and stood up on his toes, straining to catch just a glimpse of what lied beyond. He could only see foggy outlines, and couldn't tell what anything was. Disappointed, he turned back to the room. There was only a table and a chair, and on the table sat a typewriter, a stack of paper, and some sort of satchel. 

Slowly, he pulled the chair out and sat down, as if in some sort of trance. He knew he wasn't supposed to be here, and yet for some odd reason, he didn't feel scared, if only for a short moment. He had some strange feeling that this was exactly where he was supposed to be. 

He stared at the typewriter for a long time, simply thinking. There was a page already set in it, with something scribbled faintly on the margin. He squinted a little, hoping to bring the writing into focus, but he couldn't make out what it said. He didn't want to take it out, afraid he'd disturb that odd energy in this room, so he just stared at it. 

It only took him a moment to realize that those uncomfortable, disruptive, and questioning thoughts hadn't just appeared one day. They had quietly emerged from their dark hiding place in the back of his mind and slowly taken over. It had started months ago with one little question that he was able to quickly forget, but over time, it had come back, stronger than the time before. He used to love and praise this city. What had changed?

His thoughts spun through his mind like a storm, and even the peaceful quiet couldn't calm it this time. He would have to try something new. He remembered his urge to write during the lecture before lunch, and realized that now, he had his chance. Perhaps he could find some meaning, some purpose in his thoughts if he recorded them.

But what would he say?

He had to start with something - so he started with the word he had learned to hate. The first letter clicked softly, and he cringed slightly. He had to finish now. And as he typed, slowly and surely at first, he became more comfortable, and let himself relax. 

Suddenly, his fingers flew across the keys like they never had before. He started at the beginning, and planned to record everything up until the present, but he quickly ran out of paper, and before he could set another page, the bell rang again. 

He nearly jumped out of his seat again. Dinner already? He had been in here for hours without realizing it. Had anyone noticed his absence? He slowly stood up and looked down at the page he had just written. It seemed like he'd written out a part of his soul. He couldn't just leave it here. He folded it very carefully and tucked it into his pants pocket, but his fingers brushed over the pen and he hesitated again. He needed some way to mark this as his own. It was his soul, after all, his story. So he unfolded the paper and withdrew the pen, and, after another long hesitation, he signed his name and stuffed them both into the pocket of his shirt before slipping down the stairs again and joining the others in their near silent march to the cafeteria.