The mud was black. It sucked at their boots like a hungry mouth. Elias stood in the center of the clearing, his breath coming in sharp, white bursts. The air tasted of iron and ash. He held the staff tight. His hands shook. Not from cold. From fear. The shadows moved. They were not shadows. They were shapes. Tall and thin. They wore no faces. They only had eyes. Glowing. Red. They circled him. They hummed. A low, vibrating sound. It entered his bones. It rattled his teeth. He did not run. Running was useless. He had learned that. He stood still. He waited.

He had crossed the threshold three days ago. Or perhaps three years. Time was strange here. Time was fluid. It pooled in the corners of the room. It dripped from the ceiling. The world beyond the door was gone. The world before him was a dream that had turned solid. A nightmare made of stone and mist. He was an exile. He was a ghost. He was nothing.

But he held the locket.

It hung against his chest. Cold. Silver. He touched it. His fingers brushed the metal. It was warm. It was the only warm thing in the world. Inside was a lock of hair. Blond. Soft. Sheila’s hair. She was gone. She had not followed him. She had stayed in the world of rain and grey streets. She had stayed with the children. She had stayed with the life they had built. The life that was crumbling. The life that was ending. He had taken the locket. He had taken it from her wrist. He had taken it while she slept. He had taken it because he was afraid. He was afraid of losing her. He was afraid of the distance. He was afraid of the silence that would follow his departure.

The shapes stopped humming. They stopped circling. They stared at him. He stared back. He raised the staff. He swung it. The wood cracked against the air. A spark flew. It landed on the ground. It did not burn. It faded. The shapes did not move. They did not attack. They watched. They waited. They knew. They knew what he was. They knew what he wanted. They knew the truth.

He did not want to save the world. He did not want to be a hero. He wanted to go back. He wanted to see her face. He wanted to hear her voice. He wanted to hold her hand. He wanted to wake up in their bed. He wanted to smell the toast in the kitchen. He wanted the mundane. He wanted the safe. He wanted the known.

But he was here.

He walked forward. The mud pulled at his legs. He kicked free. He walked faster. The shapes followed. They did not block him. They did not stop him. They let him pass. They let him go deeper into the dark. The trees grew taller. The branches twisted. They looked like fingers. They reached for him. They did not touch him. He walked until the clearing was gone. He walked until the sky was gone. He walked until there was only the path. And the locket. And the fear.

He found the door.

It stood alone in the forest. A door. Just a door. No house. No walls. Just a frame. And a door. It was white. It was clean. It was perfect. It was out of place. It was wrong. He stopped. He looked at it. He knew what it was. He knew what it meant. It was the exit. It was the way back. It was the way home.

He reached for the handle. His hand hovered. He hesitated. He thought of Sheila. He thought of her face. He thought of her eyes. He thought of the way she smiled. He thought of the way she frowned. He thought of the way she slept. He thought of the way she breathed. He thought of the life they had shared. He thought of the years. He thought of the promises. He thought of the vows. He thought of the love.

He pulled the door open.

Light flooded in. It was bright. It was blinding. It was white. It was pure. It was empty. He stepped inside.

The room was small. It was bare. There was a chair. There was a table. There was a mirror. There was no one. He looked around. He waited. He listened. He heard nothing. He saw nothing. He was alone. He was truly alone.

He turned to the door. He was going to close it. He was going to stay. He was going to wait. He was going to see if she would come. He was going to see if anyone would come. He was going to be here. He was going to be safe. He was going to be still.

The door closed behind him. The light faded. The room was dark. He sat in the chair. He put his head in his hands. He waited.

He waited for an hour. Or a day. Or a year. He did not know. He did not care. He sat. He breathed. He thought. He thought of the shapes. He thought of the mud. He thought of the staff. He thought of the locket. He touched it. It was cold. It was still cold.

He stood up. He walked to the mirror. He looked at himself. He saw a man. He saw a stranger. He saw a ghost. He saw the exile. He saw the coward. He saw the thief. He saw the one who ran. He saw the one who left. He saw the one who took.

He did not like what he saw. He did not like who he was. He did not like what he had become. He was not a hero. He was not a savior. He was a burden. He was a mistake. He was a wound. He was a scar.

He looked at the locket again. He opened it. He looked at the hair. It was dry. It was brittle. It was dead. It was not alive. It was not her. It was just hair. It was just a memory. It was just a thing.

He closed the locket. He put it back on the chain. He put the chain around his neck. He felt the weight. He felt the pull. He felt the drag. He felt the chain.

He walked to the door. He opened it.

The forest was there. The mud was there. The shapes were there. They were waiting. They were watching. They were smiling. They were glad. They were proud. They were happy. They had won. They had broken him. They had changed him. They had made him them.

He stepped out. The mud sucked at his boots. He did not fight it. He let it pull. He let it drag. He let it take him. He walked into the dark. He walked into the mist. He walked into the night. He walked into the void. He walked into the end.

He did not look back. He did not think. He did not feel. He did not exist. He was gone. He was nothing. He was dust. He was ash. He was memory. He was forgotten.

The locket hung against his chest. It swayed. It clinked. It rang. It sang. It spoke. It whispered. It told the story. It told the truth. It told the lie. It told the end.

He walked. And walked. And walked.

The shapes followed. The dark followed. The silence followed. The fear followed. The pain followed. The love followed. The loss followed. The end followed.

He was the pale banner. He was the flag of surrender. He was the sign of defeat. He was the mark of exile. He was the ghost in the machine. He was the shadow in the light. He was the echo in the void. He was the silence in the noise. He was the absence in the presence. He was the nothing in the something. He was the end in the beginning. He was the death in the life. He was the dark in the light. He was the cold in the warm. He was the pain in the joy. He was the loss in the gain. He was the end.

He walked.

He walked.

He walked.