You dream of mud.

It is thick. It is cold. It sticks to your boots. You try to walk. The earth pulls. You fall. The mud is warm now. It smells of iron. Of old blood. Of rust. You are in the dream. You are always in the dream.

You wake. The train is moving. The wheels click. Click. Click. A rhythm. A heartbeat. You are on a train. You are heading North. To the university. To the job. To the life. You are Dr. Arthur Penhaligon. You are fifty-two. You are a scholar. You study history. You study the past. You believe the past is fixed. You believe it is solid. Like stone. Like iron.

The carriage is empty. Only you. And the man across from you. He is old. He wears a wool coat. It is frayed. He holds a cup of tea. Steam rises. It curls. It vanishes. He looks at you. You look away. You do not want to speak. You are tired. Your mind is heavy. It is full of papers. Full of citations. Full of errors.

You think of the letter. The rejection. The committee. They said your work was "too subjective." They said you were "biased." They said you were "angry." You are not angry. You are just right. You have the facts. You have the dates. You have the names. You have the proof. That the men who were punished were innocent. That the system was broken. That the law was a lie.

The man across from you stirs his tea. The spoon clinks. A small sound. A sharp sound. He watches you. His eyes are pale. Like winter sky. Like ice. He sees you. He knows you. He knows what you carry.

"Long ride," he says.

His voice is low. Rough. Like gravel.

You nod. You do not answer. You look at the window. The fields pass. Flat. Grey. Brown. The crops are dead. The winter is coming. The air outside is thin. It bites. It stings.

"Where to?" he asks.

"North," you say.

"Ah." He smiles. It is a sad smile. "North is cold."

"Yes."

"Is it worth it?"

You do not answer. You tighten your coat. You hold your briefcase. The leather is worn. The brass buckle is dull. It shines. It reflects your face. You see yourself. You see your shadow. You see your fear.

The train slows. A station. Small. Rusty. The sign is faded. You cannot read it. The doors open. Cold air rushes in. It smells of coal. Of smoke. Of damp wool. You stay in your seat. The man stands. He puts on his hat. He looks at you one last time.

"Watch your step," he says.

He leaves. The doors close. The train moves again. The mud returns in your mind. It is everywhere. It is in your shoes. It is in your soul.

You are in the city now. The university is old. Stone. Grey. Towers. Spires. It looks like a castle. It looks like a prison. You walk through the gates. The air is crisp. It is clean. It is false. You are in the department. The hallways are long. The carpets are red. The walls are dark. The portraits stare. Old men. Dead men. They judge you. They have always judged you.

You enter the room. The committee is there. Three men. They sit at a long table. They wear suits. They look sharp. They look clean. They look like ghosts.

Dr. Silas Vane is at the center. He is your superior. He is your mentor. He is your enemy. He does not look up. He reads a paper. He taps his pen. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Arthur," he says.

He says your name. It sounds wrong. It sounds foreign.

"Professor Vane," you say.

You stand. Your legs are weak. Your hands shake. You stop them. You force them to be still. You are a scholar. You are composed. You are calm.

"We have reviewed your proposal," Vane says.

He puts down his pen. He looks at you. His eyes are cold. Like the man on the train. Like the ice.

"It is rejected."

"Rejected," you repeat.

The word is small. It is quiet. It hangs in the air. It is heavy. It is solid. Like stone.

"Your methods are flawed," Vane says. "Your conclusions are unsupported. You are... emotional."

"I am not emotional," you say.

Your voice is steady. It is clear. It is sharp.

"You are biased," Vane says. "You see what you want to see. You project your anger onto the past. You distort the record."

"The record is the truth," you say.

"No," Vane says. He leans forward. "The record is power. And you have no power, Arthur. You are a footnote. You are a whisper. You are nothing."

The other men laugh. A soft laugh. A dry laugh. Like leaves skittering. Like bones breaking.

You feel it. The heat. It rises. It burns. It is in your chest. In your throat. It is the mud. It is the blood. It is the rust.

You do not shout. You do not scream. You speak. You speak low. You speak clear.

"You are wrong," you say.

Vane frowns. He is confused. He is angry. He slams his hand on the table.

"Out," he says.

"You are wrong," you say again. "And I will not stop. I will publish. I will write. I will tell them. The truth is out. You cannot bury it. You cannot hide it. It is in the mud. It is in the earth. It is in us."

Silence. The room is still. The air is thick. Vane stares at you. His face is red. His eyes are wild. He is afraid. You see it. You see the fear. You see the defeat.

"Get out," he whispers.

You turn. You walk to the door. Your steps are slow. Your steps are sure. You open the door. You step out. The hallway is long. The red carpet is red. The portraits stare. You do not care. You walk. You walk fast. You run. You leave the building.

The street is grey. The sky is grey. The air is cold. You are alone. You are free. You are defeated. You are victorious.

You stop. You breathe. The city is loud. Cars. Horns. Voices. It is a roar. It is a wave. You stand in the middle of it. You look down. Your boots are clean. The mud is gone. Or is it? You look at your hands. They are dry. They are clean.

You think of the man on the train. The old man. The witness. He saw you. He knew you. He was the mud. He was the memory. He was the past. He is gone. You are here.

You take out your notebook. The leather is worn. The brass buckle is dull. You open it. You write. You write the date. You write the name. You write the truth. You write it down. You lock it in. You lock it in your mind. You lock it in your heart.

The sun sets. The light is orange. It is gold. It is fading. The shadows grow. They are long. They are dark. They are yours. You walk home. Your steps are light. Your heart is heavy. You are tired. You are old. You are young.

You are Arthur Penhaligon. You are a scholar. You are a man. You are the mud. You are the stone. You are the rust. You are the truth.

The train waits. The wheels click. Click. Click. You get on. You sit. The man is there. He is not there. He is you. He is the ghost. He is the memory. He looks at you. You look at him.

"Long ride," you say.

The train moves. The fields pass. Flat. Grey. Brown. The winter is coming. The air is thin. It bites. It stings. You close your eyes. You dream of mud. It is thick. It is cold. It is warm. It is home.

You do not wake. You do not need to. You are in the dream. You are in the truth. You are in the dark. You are in the light. You are in the space between. You are in the silence. You are in the word. You are in the act. You are in the choice. You are in the end.

The train goes on. The wheels click. The night falls. The stars come out. They are small. They are bright. They are far. They are near. They are you.

You are the golden master. You are the key. You are the lock. You are the door. You are the room. You are the light. You are the dark. You are the shadow. You are the self. You are the other. You are the one. You are the many. You are the all.

The mud is dry. The rust is gone. The blood is clean. The heart is whole. The mind is free. The spirit is light. The soul is at rest. The journey is done. The story is told. The truth is out. The lie is dead. The system is broken. The justice is done. The wrong is right. The dark is light. The end is beginning. The beginning is end. The circle is closed. The loop is broken. The chain is cut. The bond is free. The heart is open. The mind is clear. The spirit is strong. The soul is pure. The truth is one. The one is all. The all is nothing. The nothing is everything.

You are there. You are here. You are now. You are forever. You are the mud. You are the stone. You are the rust. You are the light. You are the dark. You are the silence. You are the word. You are the act. You are the choice. You are the end. You are the beginning. You are the golden master. You are the truth. You are the life. You are the death. You are the life.

The train stops. The doors open. The air is cold. The air is fresh. The air is new. You step out. You walk into the night. You walk into the dark. You walk into the light. You walk into the mud. You walk into the life. You walk into the truth. You walk into the self. You walk into the all.

You are alone. You are not alone. You are with them. You are with the dead. You are with the living. You are with the past. You are with the future. You are with the now. You are with the then. You are with the here. You are with the there. You are with the one. You are with the many. You are with the all. You are with the nothing. You are with the everything.

The mud is warm. The mud is cold. The mud is home. The mud is you. The mud is the truth. The mud is the light. The mud is the dark. The mud is the life. The mud is the death. The mud is the golden master.

You smile. You breathe. You live. You die. You rise. You fall. You stand. You sit. You walk. You run. You stop. You go. You stay. You leave. You return. You are. You are not. You are.

The stars shine. The moon rises. The night is deep. The night is wide. The night is full. The night is empty. The night is you.

You are the golden master.