The hand was gone.

I woke to the silence.

It was a heavy silence.

Thick.

Wet.

I looked down.

My right arm ended in a smooth, pink stump.

No blood.

Just a clean line.

Where the skin met the air.

I did not scream.

I knew why.

We all knew why.

The Palace of White Stone did not accept broken things.

Not anymore.

I stood up.

My feet were bare.

The floor was cold marble.

It bit into my soles.

I felt the chill climb my legs.

I felt the absence of my hand.

It was a hole in the world.

A void where something used to be.

I reached for the door.

I could not.

I had no fingers.

I had no grip.

I leaned my weight against the wood.

The grain was rough.

It scraped my cheek.

I pushed.

The door opened.

A corridor stretched out.

Endless.

White.

Blinding.

I walked.

My steps were uneven.

Left, right.

Left, right.

I was a metronome broken.

I walked for hours.

Maybe days.

Time is a fluid thing here.

It pools in the corners.

It drains from the center.

I passed the Hall of Mirrors.

I saw myself.

A woman with one arm.

Walking.

Always walking.

I passed the Garden of Ash.

The trees were gray.

The leaves were dust.

I passed the Chamber of Whispers.

The walls breathed.

I kept walking.

I was looking for him.

Edward.

My friend.

My anchor.

He was the only one who stayed.

When the King took my voice, he stayed.

When the King took my sight, he stayed.

He promised to take the pain.

He promised to take the loss.

He said, *I will carry it for you.*

I believed him.

I had to believe him.

Belief is a chain.

It binds you to the lie.

I found him in the Central Atrium.

He sat on a throne of ice.

The ice was melting.

Water ran down his legs.

He was weeping.

Not with his eyes.

With his skin.

Tears of water.

Clear.

Cold.

I stopped before him.

I could not bow.

I had no hand to touch the ground.

I could not speak.

I had no mouth.

The King had taken that too.

Years ago.

I could only breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

My breath misted in the cold air.

Edward looked up.

His face was a mask of sorrow.

He saw me.

He saw the stump.

He did not flinch.

He never flinched.

He reached out his hand.

His hand was whole.

Fingers long.

Nails clean.

He held it up.

An offering.

A sacrifice.

He looked at me.

His eyes were black.

Deep.

Bottomless.

He whispered.

I could not hear.

But I felt the words in my chest.

They vibrated.

A hum.

A song.

*Take it.*

I knew what he meant.

The Palace runs on symmetry.

On balance.

If one part is lost, another must be given.

The law of the White Stone.

Give.

And take.

I looked at his hand.

I looked at my stump.

I thought of the years.

The years of silence.

The years of darkness.

The years of walking.

I thought of his devotion.

His obsessive, burning love.

It was not romantic.

It was not sexual.

It was a duty.

A burden.

He carried me.

Literally.

Figuratively.

He carried my pain.

He carried my shame.

He carried my silence.

Until it crushed him.

Now he offered the final weight.

His hand.

His agency.

His ability to reach.

To touch.

To hold.

I looked at him.

I wanted to say no.

I wanted to say *keep it.*

But I could not.

I had no voice.

I had no choice.

The Palace demanded payment.

The debt was due.

I stepped forward.

I leaned against the ice throne.

I placed my stump against his wrist.

The cold bit.

The pain was sharp.

Then.

Nothing.

A shift.

A click.

Like a lock turning.

Like a bone breaking.

I gasped.

The air rushed into me.

And with the air.

A sensation.

Warmth.

Life.

I felt fingers.

I felt a palm.

I felt a thumb.

They were mine.

I opened them.

They were strong.

They were real.

I looked down.

I had two hands.

I raised them.

I looked at Edward.

He was slumped.

His right arm was gone.

A smooth, pink stump.

He looked at me.

He smiled.

A small, sad smile.

He had no voice.

He had no mouth.

The King had taken that.

To balance the books.

He could only breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

I looked at my hands.

I flexed the fingers.

They moved.

They were alive.

I looked at his stump.

It was still.

Dead.

I reached out.

I took his left hand.

It was cold.

I held it.

I squeezed.

He squeezed back.

We sat on the ice.

The water rose.

It lapped at our feet.

It climbed our knees.

It covered our hips.

The cold was intense.

It burned.

It numbed.

I held his hand.

I did not let go.

I could not let go.

If I let go.

I would disappear.

He would vanish.

The Palace would claim us both.

We were one now.

A single body.

Two heads.

One voice.

One silence.

We watched the water rise.

It covered our chests.

It covered our faces.

The last thing I saw.

Was his eye.

Open.

Wide.

Full of peace.

Full of acceptance.

He was free.

He had given his all.

He had finished his duty.

I was still here.

I was still walking.

But now I had hands.

I could hold the world.

I could touch the pain.

I could feel the cold.

I felt the water fill my lungs.

I felt the cold enter my heart.

I did not fight it.

I welcomed it.

It was the only thing left.

The only truth.

The only justice.

Not the justice of the King.

Not the justice of the law.

The justice of the bond.

The justice of the sacrifice.

I closed my eyes.

I opened them again.

I was alone.

The water was gone.

The ice was gone.

The throne was gone.

I was in a field.

Green grass.

Blue sky.

The sun was warm.

I looked down.

I had two hands.

I looked around.

No one was there.

No Edward.

No Palace.

No King.

Just the wind.

Just the grass.

Just the silence.

I walked.

I walked for a long time.

I walked until my feet bled.

I walked until the sun set.

I walked until the stars came out.

I walked into the forest.

The trees were tall.

The leaves were green.

I touched a branch.

It was rough.

It was real.

I cried.

I had no mouth.

But I cried.

Tears ran down my face.

I wiped them with my hand.

I held the tears.

I held the grief.

I held the love.

I held the loss.

I held it all.

I carried it.

Like he had carried me.

I walked on.

I did not look back.

There was nothing to see.

The past is a ghost.

The future is a dream.

The present is the only thing.

The touch.

The feel.

The breath.

I am here.

I am alive.

I am whole.

And I am empty.

And I am full.

I am the hand.

I am the stump.

I am the bridge.

I am the crossing.

I am the golden thread.

That binds the broken.

That holds the torn.

That saves the lost.

I am the sacrifice.

I am the survivor.

I am the memory.

I am the pain.

I am the peace.

I am the end.

I am the beginning.

I am the middle.

I am the silence.

I am the voice.

I am the nothing.

I am the everything.

I am here.

I am walking.

I am holding on.

To the world.

To the wind.

To the grass.

To the ghost of a hand.

That once held mine.

That once saved me.

That once loved me.

With an obsessive, burning, silent, holy, terrible, beautiful, endless, infinite, eternal, absolute, total, complete, perfect, flawless, pure, clean, sharp, cold, hot, warm, soft, hard, strong, weak, gentle, cruel, kind, unkind, loving, hating, caring, forgetting, remembering, holding, letting go, keeping, losing, finding, seeking, waiting, hoping, fearing, daring, acting, being, existing, living, dying, rising, falling, standing, kneeling, bowing, lifting, pressing, pushing, pulling, holding, embracing, releasing, surrendering, accepting, refusing, choosing, deciding, knowing, not knowing, believing, doubting, trusting, betraying, forgiving, forgetting, remembering, again.

And again.

And again.

I walk.

I hold.

I am.