The axe bit deep. Wood splinters flew like black teeth. I swung again. The sound was wet. It was loud. It filled the hollow chest of the old oak. My arms burned. My breath was ragged. I was alone in the forest. But I did not feel alone. I felt the weight of the years. I felt the debt.

I am a man of few words. I am a man of heavy hands. I cut timber for the Baron. I have done it for twenty years. My back is a question mark. My knees are rusted hinges. But I am good. I am strong. Or so I thought.

I looked up. The sun was low. The light was red. It hit the bark. It looked like blood. A bird screamed. It was a hawk. It circled. It watched. It did not care. It was free. I was not free.

I dropped the axe. I walked home. The path was mud. The mud sucked at my boots. I could not hear my own thoughts. I could only hear the rain. It started to fall. Small drops. Then heavy. Then a wall.

I entered the house. It was cold. The fire was dead. I lit a match. The flame was yellow. It flickered. It died. I lit another. I lit a third.

My brother, Silas, sat by the table. He was eating. He ate bread. He ate cheese. He ate slowly. He chewed with his eyes closed. He was happy. I hated him for it. I loved him for it.

"Silas," I said.

He opened his eye. One eye. The other was scarred. A white line. A jagged line.

"Did you get the wood?" he asked.

"Most of it," I said. "The oak is hard. It fights back."

He smiled. It was a small smile. It was a cruel smile.

"Good," he said. "The Baron needs it. The winter comes. The cold comes. We must be ready."

I sat down. The chair creaked. The wood groaned. It was like a bone breaking.

"I am tired, Silas," I said.

"Tired is easy," he said. "Poor is hard. Tired is a feeling. Poor is a fact. You know this, Tom. You have always known."

I did not answer. I poured the ale. The liquid was dark. It smelled of barley and earth. I drank. It burned. It felt like fire in my throat. It felt like truth.

"Why did he send us here?" I asked. "Why this place? Why this work?"

"Because he owns us," Silas said. "He owns the land. He owns the trees. He owns the air. We are just the hands. Hands do not ask. Hands do not dream. Hands just work."

"I am not just hands," I said.

"Then you are a fool," Silas said. "And fools break. Hands do not break. Hands endure."

I looked at my hands. They were rough. They were cracked. The skin was like old leather. They were strong. They were weak. I did not know which.

"We need more gold," I said. "The price of grain goes up. The price of wool goes up. We are bleeding out. Slowly. But we are bleeding."

Silas nodded. He wiped his mouth. He used his sleeve. He did not care about the stain.

"Then we must cut more," he said. "We must cut faster. We must cut deeper. Until there is nothing left. Until the forest is gone. Until we are gone."

"That is not a plan," I said. "That is a death wish."

"Perhaps," Silas said. "But it is the only plan. Do you remember the Fox? The one that came into the barn last night?"

I remembered. I had seen it. It was red. It was bright. It looked at me. It did not run. It looked into my eyes. It saw my fear. It saw my hunger.

"It was fat," I said.

"It was fast," Silas said. "But it was not fast enough. I had the trap. I had the wire. I pulled the string. It screamed. It thrashed. It bled. It died in my hands. I held it. I held it tight. It was warm. It was alive. Then it was not."

I stared at him. My heart beat. It beat fast. It beat hard.

"You killed it," I said.

"I fed us," Silas said. "We ate its heart. We ate its liver. It was sweet. It was game. It was our life. We stole it from the dark. We stole it from the wild. And we ate. And we lived. Is that not the way? Is that not the law?"

I looked at the table. The wood was scratched. The scratches were deep. They were like rivers. They were like veins.

"I am not you, Silas," I said.

"No," he said. "You are the one who hesitates. You are the one who watches. You are the one who waits. And waiting is dangerous. Waiting is death."

I stood up. My legs shook. I went to the window. I looked out. The rain was still falling. The trees were black. The sky was gray. I could not see the path. I could not see the end. I could only see the rain.

"I will go out," I said. "I will cut the rest. I will finish the job."

"Good," Silas said. "Go. Do not look back. Do not think. Just swing. Just cut. Just live."

I left. The door closed. The latch clicked. It was a final sound. It was a lock.

I walked into the storm. The wind hit me. It was cold. It was sharp. It cut my face. I did not care. I walked to the edge of the clearing. The oak tree stood there. It was huge. It was old. It was proud.

I picked up the axe. I held it. The handle was smooth. It was worn by my hands. It was mine. It was my partner.

I swung. The wood split. I swung again. The wood cracked. I swung again. The wood shattered.

I was not cutting wood. I was cutting time. I was cutting debt. I was cutting my own life.

I worked until the light was gone. I worked until my arms were numb. I worked until I could not feel my body. I was only the axe. I was only the swing.

When I finished, the tree was gone. Only a stump remained. It was white. It was raw. It was bleeding sap. The sap was clear. It looked like tears.

I sat on the stump. I put my head in my hands. I was not tired. I was empty. I was hollow.

I walked home. The mud was deeper. The night was darker. I saw a light. It was in the window. It was yellow. It was warm.

I entered. Silas was there. He was waiting. He had the fox. It was skinned. It was hung on the hook. It was red. It was bright.

"Did you do it?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Good," he said. "Now we can eat. Now we can sleep. Now we can wait."

I looked at the fox. I looked at Silas. I looked at the fire.

I realized something. The fire was not warm. The fire was cold. The light was not light. The light was dark.

"I cannot do this anymore," I said.

Silas looked at me. His face was still. His eyes were dark.

"You can," he said. "You must. This is your fate. This is our fate. We are bound. We are tied. We cannot break the chain. We can only hold it tight."

"I am breaking," I said.

"Then break," he said. "Break quietly. Break in the dark. But do not stop. Do not rest. Do not sleep. Because if you sleep, you die. And if you die, I am alone. And I do not want to be alone."

I looked at him. I saw the fear. I saw the love. It was ugly. It was raw. It was true.

I went to the table. I sat down. I did not eat. I did not speak. I just sat. I watched the fire. I watched the fox. I watched my brother.

The night was long. The night was heavy. The night was a weight on my chest.

I thought about the hawk. I thought about the oak. I thought about the rain. I thought about the debt.

I realized I was not the hunter. I was not the woodcutter. I was the prey. I had been the prey for years. I had just not known.

I looked at Silas. He was sleeping. His face was peaceful. He was innocent. He was guilty. He was both.

I stood up. I went to the door. I opened it. The wind rushed in. It was cold. It was clean.

I walked out. I did not look back. I walked into the dark. I walked into the rain. I walked into the forest.

I did not know where I was going. I did not know if I would live. I did not know if I would die.

I only knew that I was free.

I was free to be broken.

I was free to be alone.

I was free to be me.

The rain stopped. The stars came out. They were bright. They were cold. They were far away.

I looked at my hands. They were still. They were calm. They were empty.

I smiled. It was a small smile. It was a sad smile. It was a real smile.

I walked on. The forest swallowed me. The dark took me. The silence held me.

I was gone.

I was here.

I was nothing.

I was everything.