The gate was open.

I stepped through.

Dust.

Stone.

Cold.

I am Dr. Alistair Vane.

Historian.

Linguist.

Dead?

No.

Not yet.

Or maybe I am.

It doesn’t matter.

The air tastes of iron and old rain.

I wear my tweed.

It is damp.

My coat is heavy.

I hold my satchel.

Inside: books.

Papers.

A pen.

No phone.

No car.

Just the satchel.

I walk.

The path narrows.

Trees lean in.

Black branches.

Like fingers.

Reaching.

I stop.

A figure stands ahead.

Robed.

Grey.

Hood up.

Face hidden.

I know this place.

I have read about it.

The Spire of St. Jude.

A ruin.

A myth.

But it is here.

Solid.

Real.

The figure turns.

No face.

Just shadow.

I feel a pull.

In my chest.

A hook.

Dragging.

I do not run.

I never run.

I walk forward.

The ground shifts.

Stone turns to mist.

Mist turns to glass.

I am floating.

Above the valley.

Below: a city.

Not London.

Not Paris.

Something older.

Towers of black iron.

Smoke that glows blue.

People.

Tiny.

Moving in lines.

Straight.

Rigid.

No joy.

No noise.

Just movement.

I look closer.

One figure stops.

Lifts a head.

Eyes.

Hollow.

Black pits.

I recognize the posture.

My posture.

The scholar’s stance.

Chin down.

Eyes scanning.

Seeking.

Always seeking.

I am watching myself.

From above.

A god.

A ghost.

A mistake.

The mist swirls.

I fall.

I land.

On a desk.

Wood.

Oak.

Scratched.

Ink.

Dried.

Black.

I sit.

My hands are on the desk.

They are not my hands.

They are long.

Pale.

Fingers like twigs.

I look up.

A mirror.

On the wall.

Cracked.

I see my face.

Younger.

Sharper.

Hungry.

Alistair Vane.

At twenty-five.

Before the tenure.

Before the marriage.

Before the silence.

I smile.

It feels wrong.

The face does not smile back.

It stares.

Cold.

Judging.

I open my mouth.

No sound.

I try again.

A whisper.

Like wind in dry leaves.

"Who are you?"

The reflection opens its mouth.

Wide.

Black inside.

No teeth.

No tongue.

Just void.

It speaks.

Not with sound.

With thought.

Direct.

Into my skull.

You are the judge.

I shake my head.

No.

I am the accused.

The thought pulses.

No.

You are the law.

I feel the pressure.

In my temples.

Throbbing.

The desk shakes.

Ink spills.

Black rivers.

Flowing.

I stand.

The room expands.

Walls dissolve.

I am in the court.

The Great Hall of the Spire.

Ceiling high.

Stars.

Real stars.

Visible through stone.

Bench.

Long.

Wood.

Empty.

I sit.

I am on the bench.

I am the judge.

The accused enters.

A girl.

Young.

Thirteen.

Fourteen.

Brown hair.

Tied back.

Eyes red.

She does not look at me.

She looks at the floor.

She stands.

Trembling.

I look at her.

I know her.

I do not know her.

She is me.

The girl I was.

The one who believed.

The one who wrote.

The one who thought words had power.

The scribes enter.

Robed.

White.

Faces hidden.

They hold scrolls.

Long.

White.

They unroll.

Text.

Dense.

Technical.

I read.

My eyes move.

Fast.

I understand.

It is a contract.

A deal.

I sold my soul.

Not to the devil.

To the system.

To the university.

To the committee.

To the grant.

I traded my voice.

For tenure.

I traded my doubt.

For certainty.

I traded my heart.

For a chair.

The scribe speaks.

Voice flat.

No emotion.

The defendant is guilty of heresy.

I look at the girl.

Heresy.

What did she do?

She asked a question.

She looked at the sky.

She saw the stars.

She said they were beautiful.

The scribe pauses.

The court holds its breath.

Silence.

Heavy.

Thick.

The scribe continues.

Beauty is ineffable.

To name it is to trap it.

To trap it is to own it.

To own it is to sell it.

She sold it.

She is guilty.

I look at my hands.

My long, pale hands.

They are holding the gavel.

Wood.

Dark.

I look at the girl.

Her eyes rise.

She sees me.

She sees the gavel.

She sees the bench.

She sees the mask.

She smiles.

Small.

Sad.

She knows.

I know.

The gavel rises.

My arm.

It is not my arm.

It is the system.

It is the committee.

It is the bias.

It is the prejudice.

It is the golden cage.

I swing.

The sound is not a crash.

It is a sigh.

A long, slow exhale.

The girl falls.

Not dead.

Gone.

Dissolved.

Into light.

Into dust.

Into me.

I feel it.

The loss.

The pain.

It is my pain.

It is my joy.

It is my life.

I swing again.

The gavel breaks.

Wood shatters.

Splinters fly.

Like shrapnel.

Like tears.

The court erupts.

Scribes scream.

Faces tear from masks.

Blood.

Black blood.

The stars outside turn red.

The stone cracks.

The floor drops.

I fall.

I fall into the void.

I fall into the truth.

The truth is simple.

The truth is cruel.

The justice is the injustice.

The law is the crime.

I am the crime.

I am the law.

I am the judge.

I am the accused.

I am the punishment.

I am the crime.

The fall ends.

I am on the ground.

In the valley.

The city is gone.

The Spire is gone.

The mist is gone.

I am on the grass.

Green.

Soft.

Wet.

My coat is torn.

My satchel is empty.

No books.

No papers.

No pen.

I have nothing.

I am nothing.

I stand.

I look up.

The sky.

Blue.

Clear.

Stars.

Fading.

Day breaks.

Light.

Golden.

Warm.

I feel it on my face.

It is not a gift.

It is a wound.

It is a brand.

It is a mark.

I am marked.

I am known.

I am free.

I am bound.

I walk.

The path is clear.

No trees.

No shadows.

Just light.

I walk.

I do not stop.

I do not look back.

I know what I did.

I killed the part of me that dreamed.

I killed the part of me that loved.

I killed the part of me that was human.

I did it to survive.

I did it to be seen.

I did it to be safe.

It was not safe.

It was not seen.

It was not survival.

It was death.

Slow.

Quiet.

Bureaucratic.

I am alive.

I am dead.

I am both.

I am the ghost in the machine.

The glitch in the code.

The error in the text.

I am the truth.

The truth is ugly.

The truth is beautiful.

The truth is me.

I walk.

The sun rises.

The light grows.

It burns.

It heals.

It burns.

I walk.

I am alone.

I am with myself.

I am with the ghost.

I am with the girl.

I am with the law.

I am with the crime.

I am with the justice.

I am with the injustice.

I am with the world.

The world is silent.

The world is loud.

The world is me.

I stop.

I look at my hands.

They are normal.

Short.

Brown.

Human.

I clench them.

Fists.

I unclench.

Open.

I feel the air.

It is cold.

It is warm.

It is real.

I breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

I am here.

I am now.

I am Alistair Vane.

I am the scholar.

I am the sinner.

I am the saint.

I am the judge.

I am the accused.

I am the executioner.

I am the victim.

I am the witness.

I am the jury.

I am the verdict.

I am the sentence.

I am the pardon.

I am the life.

I am the death.

I am the breath.

I am the silence.

I am the word.

I am the meaning.

I am the nonsense.

I am the truth.

I am the lie.

I am the story.

I am the end.

I walk.

The path leads nowhere.

The path leads everywhere.

The path leads to me.

I walk.

I walk.

I walk.

The light follows.

The shadow follows.

The ghost follows.

I am alone.

I am not alone.

I am the company.

I am the companion.

I am the friend.

I am the enemy.

I am the love.

I am the hate.

I am the fear.

I am the hope.

I am the light.

I am the dark.

I am the day.

I am the night.

I am the morning.

I am the evening.

I am the now.

I am the always.

I am the never.

I am the eternal.

I am the fleeting.

I am the golden visit.

The visit is over.

The visitor is gone.

I am the visitor.

I am the host.

I am the house.

I am the key.

I am the lock.

I am the door.

I am the wall.

I am the window.

I am the view.

I am the scene.

I am the play.

I am the actor.

I am the audience.

I am the director.

I am the script.

I am the word.

I am the sound.

I am the silence.

I am the breath.

I am the life.

I am the death.

I am the truth.

The truth is free.

I am free.

I walk.