The hall smelled of wet wool and burning tallow. We were many. Hundreds, perhaps. Seated on benches that scraped against the stone floor, we waited for the meal. It was a feast. Or it was supposed to be. The tables groaned under the weight of silver platters. Roast goose. Mashed potatoes. Gravy that pooled like dark oil. My father sat across from me. He did not look at me. He looked at the table. He looked at the edge of the table. His hands were flat on the wood. Knuckles white. I watched his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Shallow.

The King was not there. The throne was empty. It was a black velvet chair. It looked like a mouth. It looked like a hole. We ate. We did not eat. We pushed the food around. The spoon clinked against the plate. A sound in a dead room.

My father’s coughing started then. A wet sound. A tearing sound. It came from deep in the chest. It shook his shoulders. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to reach out. I did not. I sat still. I was a statue. I was a stone. I was nothing.

The food was cold. The goose skin was rubbery. I chewed. I swallowed. It tasted of iron. It tasted of blood. Why was the blood there? I did not know. I did not want to know.

The lights flickered. The shadows danced on the walls. They looked like birds. They looked like hands. Reaching. Grabbing. The air grew thick. It grew heavy. It pressed against my skin. I felt it in my lungs. A pressure. A weight. A suffocation.

My father stopped eating. He put the spoon down. He put the fork down. He put his hands on the table. He gripped the edge. His face turned gray. His eyes rolled back. He made a sound. A low moan. A growl. It was not a word. It was an animal sound.

I looked around. No one moved. No one looked. Everyone was eating. Everyone was staring at their plates. The silence was loud. It was a roar. It was a scream. I was alone in the middle of the crowd. I was invisible.

The table began to vibrate. A small shake. A tremor. The silver plates rattled. The glasses shivered. The vibration grew. It moved up the legs. It moved into the floor. The stone floor cracked. A thin line appeared. It spread. It widened. Dust fell from the ceiling. It drifted down like snow.

My father slid out of his chair. He fell to the floor. He lay on his side. His mouth was open. Foam came out. It was white. It was thick. It bubbled. He thrashed. His legs kicked. His arms flailed. He was fighting something. He was fighting the air. He was fighting the room.

I stood up. My legs were weak. My knees buckled. I caught the table. I held on. I watched him. I watched him suffer. I did not help. I could not help. I was frozen. I was rooted.

The cracks in the floor spread. They went under the tables. They went under the benches. The stone split. Deeper. Wider. The smell of earth came up. It was the smell of rot. The smell of deep time. The smell of the grave.

The King’s chair broke. It shattered. The velvet tore. The wood splintered. Pieces flew. A shard hit the wall. It bounced. It landed on the floor. It skittered to a stop near my father’s hand.

My father stopped moving. He lay still. His eyes were closed. His chest did not move. He was gone. He was dead. He had died in the middle of the feast. He had died in the middle of the hall.

The others stopped eating. They looked at the chair. They looked at the cracks. They looked at my father. A murmur started. It was low. It was confused. It grew. It rose. It became a shout.

I did not move. I stood by the table. I held the edge. I felt the wood. I felt the grain. It was warm. It was alive. I realized then. The table was not wood. It was bone. The table was a body. The chairs were ribs. The floor was skin. The walls were lungs. We were inside. We were inside the body. We were inside the thing.

The thing was waking up.

The floor buckled. The tables snapped. The silver flew. The people screamed. They ran. They pushed. They fell. I did not run. I stood. I watched. I watched the body rise. The walls peeled away. The roof lifted. The sky was black. It was not night. It was void.

The body stood. It was huge. It was made of stone and flesh. It had no face. It had no eyes. It had only the mouth. The mouth was the throne. The mouth was open. It was hungry. It ate the light. It ate the air. It ate the sound.

I was still there. I was the only one there. The others were gone. They had been swallowed. They had been digested. I was left. I was the residue. I was the dregs.

The body looked at me. It did not have eyes, but it saw me. It knew me. It knew my father. It knew the blood. It knew the root.

I understood then. The root was not in the soil. The root was in the flesh. The root was the connection. The root was the bond. My father had fed it. His coughing. His pain. His life. He had fed it. He had given it everything. And it had taken it. And it had grown.

I looked at my hands. They were shaking. I looked at the floor. The cracks were closing. The stone was knitting together. The body was settling. The body was sleeping again.

I was alone. I was inside the thing. I was part of it. I was the root. I had always been the root. I had fed it with my silence. I had fed it with my watching. I had fed it with my love. Destructive. Consuming. Total.

The darkness closed in. The air grew thin. I could not breathe. I could not speak. I could not move. I was buried. I was planted. I was taking hold.

I did not fight. I let it happen. I let the roots grow. I let them dig. I let them tear. I let them bind. I was the thing. I was the feast. I was the hunger.

The story ends here. Not with a bang. Not with a scream. With a quiet. With a stillness. With a breath that does not come. The root is deep. The root is strong. The root is alone. And it is enough.