The hand hung in the air.

Blood dripped.

It was red.

It was old.

Elias stood at the edge of the cliff.

The wind screamed.

It tore at his cloak.

His fingers trembled.

Not from fear.

From cold.

The cold was a beast.

It bit.

It chewed.

It swallowed the warmth from his bones.

He looked down.

The sea was black.

It was deep.

It waited.

It did not judge.

It only took.

Elias was a traveler.

He had walked for years.

His feet were ruined.

They were mirrors of his soul.

Broken.

Calloused.

Weeping.

He had left his home.

He had left his father.

The father was a king.

But he was cruel.

He was a shadow.

He cast long nets.

He caught the young.

He ate their light.

Elias had fled.

He carried nothing.

But he carried the wound.

The wound was in his hand.

It never healed.

It pulsed.

It throbbed.

It whispered.

*Stay.*

*Die.*

*Return.*

Elias shook his head.

He refused.

He was an exile.

He was a ghost.

He walked the wilderness.

The trees were skeletons.

They watched.

They mocked.

The sky was gray.

It pressed down.

It wanted to crush him.

He kept walking.

His steps were heavy.

Each step was a prayer.

Each step was a curse.

He found a figure.

Old.

White.

He sat by a stream.

The stream was clear.

It reflected the sky.

It reflected the stars.

Even in the day.

The old man looked up.

His eyes were milky.

But they saw.

They saw everything.

"Stop," the old man said.

His voice was gravel.

It was wind.

It was earth.

Elias stopped.

He was tired.

So tired.

"Who are you?" Elias asked.

The voice was small.

It was a child’s voice.

The old man smiled.

It was a sad smile.

"I am the path," he said.

"I am the end."

Elias frowned.

He did not understand.

He was confused.

He was lost.

The old man reached out.

His hand was thin.

It was like a branch.

He touched Elias’s hand.

The wound.

The pain vanished.

For a moment.

It was gone.

Elias gasped.

He looked at his hand.

It was whole.

It was strong.

It was young.

He felt power.

He felt life.

It surged through him.

It was fire.

It was gold.

He wanted to stay.

He wanted to heal.

He wanted to be whole.

The old man spoke again.

"Look," he said.

"Look at your foot."

Elias looked down.

His foot.

It was black.

It was rotting.

It was dead.

The rot spread.

It climbed up his leg.

It ate his flesh.

It drank his blood.

He screamed.

The sound was raw.

It was animal.

The old man did not move.

He watched.

He waited.

"Your hand was not the wound," the old man said.

"Your heart was the wound."

Elias stared.

He understood.

The hand was a mask.

The hand was a lie.

The true pain was inside.

It was in the refusal.

It was in the fear.

He had fled his father.

He had fled his duty.

He had fled his life.

He had chosen exile.

Exile is a prison.

The walls are invisible.

The door is locked.

The key is gone.

The old man stood up.

He was tall.

He was huge.

He was a mountain.

He looked at Elias.

He looked at the sea.

"Go," he said.

"Go to the water."

Elias shook his head.

"No," he said.

"I cannot."

"I am afraid."

The old man sighed.

It was the sigh of ages.

It was the sigh of stones.

"You will die here," the old man said.

"You will rot."

"You will be nothing."

Elias wept.

The tears were hot.

They burned.

They stung.

He wiped them away.

He looked at the sea.

The black water.

The endless dark.

It called to him.

It was a song.

It was a promise.

It was peace.

He stepped forward.

One step.

Two steps.

The rot stopped.

The pain stopped.

The world stopped.

He was still.

He was silent.

He was empty.

He looked at his hand.

It was fading.

The skin was transparent.

He could see the bones.

He could see the blood.

It was flowing out.

It was flowing into the air.

It was becoming mist.

He did not fight it.

He let it go.

He let the hand go.

He let the foot go.

He let the self go.

The old man watched.

His face was calm.

His eyes were wet.

He saw the truth.

He saw the end.

Elias was gone.

Only the mist remained.

Only the wind remained.

Only the sea remained.

The mist rose.

It joined the clouds.

It joined the sky.

It was free.

The old man sat down.

He closed his eyes.

He waited for the next traveler.

He waited for the next pain.

He waited for the next lie.

The wind howled.

The sea crashed.

The world continued.

It did not care.

It did not remember.

It was indifferent.

It was eternal.

The hand was gone.

The foot was gone.

The man was gone.

Only the story remained.

Only the echo remained.

Only the silence remained.

And the silence was loud.

It was deafening.

It was absolute.

It was the only truth.

Elias had thought he was fighting his father.

He had thought he was fighting his fate.

He had thought he was fighting the pain.

He was wrong.

He was fighting himself.

He was fighting the void.

The void was his father.

The void was his mother.

The void was his home.

The void was him.

He had carried the void with him.

He had worn it like a skin.

He had breathed it like air.

He had eaten it like food.

He could not escape it.

He could only dissolve into it.

And that was the end.

That was the peace.

That was the death.

The old man opened his eyes.

He looked at the place where Elias had stood.

There was nothing.

There was only the grass.

The grass was bent.

The grass was bruised.

It was healing.

It was growing.

The old man smiled.

He picked up a stone.

He threw it into the sea.

The splash was small.

The ripple was wide.

The water was calm.

The sky was clear.

The stars came out.

They were bright.

They were cold.

They were distant.

They were watching.

They were waiting.

They were judging.

They were loving.

They were indifferent.

They were everything.

The old man stood up.

He walked away.

He walked into the dark.

He walked into the night.

He walked into the unknown.

He was alone.

He was always alone.

He was the keeper.

He was the watcher.

He was the end.

And the end was beginning.

The cycle turned.

The wheel spun.

The stars moved.

The earth turned.

Time flowed.

Time stopped.

Time was a river.

Time was a stone.

Time was a breath.

Time was a silence.

And in the silence, there was everything.

And in the everything, there was nothing.

And in the nothing, there was pain.

And in the pain, there was love.

And in the love, there was death.

And in the death, there was life.

It was a circle.

It was a spiral.

It was a cage.

It was a door.

It was a key.

It was a lock.

It was a bone.

It was a hand.

It was a foot.

It was a man.

It was a ghost.

It was a memory.

It was a dream.

It was a lie.

It was a truth.

It was Elias.

It was the old man.

It was the sea.

It was the sky.

It was the wind.

It was the rain.

It was the sun.

It was the moon.

It was the stars.

It was the earth.

It was the fire.

It was the water.

It was the air.

It was the spirit.

It was the soul.

It was the body.

It was the mind.

It was the heart.

It was the hand.

It was the foot.

It was the wound.

It was the healing.

It was the death.

It was the life.

It was the end.

It was the beginning.

It was the now.

It was the always.

It was the never.

It was the here.

It was the there.

It was the everywhere.

It was the nowhere.

It was the everything.

It was the nothing.

It was the one.

It was the many.

It was the self.

It was the other.

It was the same.

It was the different.

It was the light.

It was the dark.

It was the sound.

It was the silence.

It was the voice.

It was the word.

It was the thought.

It was the feeling.

It was the memory.

It was the dream.

It was the reality.

It was the illusion.

It was the truth.

It was the lie.

It was the love.

It was the hate.

It was the joy.

It was the pain.

It was the life.

It was the death.

It was the end.

It was the beginning.

It was the story.

It was the silence.

And the silence held it all.