The rain hit the slate roof. It sounded like static. I sat in the chair by the window. My hands were still. They had to be still. If they moved, the air would move. If the air moved, the truth would leak.

I am not a healer. I am a listener.

The village called me a witch. They whispered it in the market square. They spat in the gutter when I passed. They did not see my face. They saw the shadow of my hands. They saw the power I did not use.

My father sat in the next room. He was breathing. The sound was wet. It was a rattle. It was the sound of a tree falling in a storm. He had been sick for three days. The doctor said it was consumption. The doctor left. He took his bag. He did not look at my father. He looked at me. His eyes were cold. He said, "Keep him quiet, Elara. Do not let him see your face."

I nodded. I did not speak. Words are dangerous. Words carry weight. Words can break things.

I went to my father. The room smelled of lavender and decay. The lavender was for the sickness. The decay was for the soul. My father lay in the bed. His skin was grey. His eyes were open. They were not looking at me. They were looking at the wall. He was waiting.

I touched his hand. It was cold. It was dry. Like dead leaves.

I closed my eyes. I reached out. Not with my hand. With my mind. I went into the dark. I went into the space between the breaths. I found the thread. It was thin. It was frayed. It was red. It was his life. It was tied to the earth. The earth was pulling it down.

I pulled back.

The thread snapped.

My father gasped. He looked at me. His eyes were clear. For a second, they were clear. Then they clouded. He died.

I did not cry. I washed his face. I put on his shirt. I folded his hands over his chest. I sat by the bed. I waited for the silence.

The silence was loud.

***

I left the house. I walked into the town. The town was small. It was a place of stone and smoke. The people walked with their heads down. They knew what I was. They knew what I did. They feared it.

I went to the church. The priest was there. Father Thomas. He was an old man. His hair was white. His face was soft. He had known me since I was a child. He had held me when I cried. He had told me stories. He had told me about God. He had told me about sin.

He saw me. He stopped. He did not smile. He looked at my hands. My hands were clean. But he knew. He always knew.

"Elara," he said. His voice was low. It was like gravel.

"I am here, Father."

He stepped back. He crossed himself. He did not invite me in. He did not offer me water. He stood in the doorway. He was a wall.

"You killed him," he said. It was not a question.

"No," I said. "I listened."

"He died because of you."

"He died because he was sick."

"Stop." He raised his hand. "Do not speak. Do not argue. You are a monster. You are a thing that eats the light. You take the life from the body. You leave the soul in the dark."

I looked at him. I saw the fear in his eyes. It was not anger. It was fear. He was afraid of me. He was afraid of what I was.

"I do not eat," I said. "I only hold."

"Then hold your tongue."

He closed the door. I heard the lock turn. I stood in the rain. The rain was cold. It soaked my clothes. It soaked my skin. It did not wash away the guilt. The guilt was inside. It was in my blood. It was in my bones.

I walked home. I did not look back. I did not look at the windows. I did not look at the people. They were watching. They were always watching.

***

Days passed. The days were long. The days were grey. I cleaned the house. I cooked the food. I ate alone. I sat in the dark. I waited for the next sound. I waited for the next breath.

I was not alone. I was never alone. I could feel them. The dead. They were in the walls. They were in the floor. They were in the air. They whispered to me. They asked me for help. They asked me to let them go. I could not let them go. I was the gate. I was the key. I was the lock.

I went to the market. I bought bread. I bought milk. I bought cheese. I paid with coins. The shopkeeper did not look at me. He gave me the change. He did not touch my hand. He threw the coins on the counter.

"Go away," he said.

"I only bought food."

"Go away. Go back to your grave. Go back to your father. Do not come here again."

I left the shop. I walked down the street. The street was empty. The sun was out. It was bright. It was harsh. It burned my skin. I walked to the river. I sat on the bank. I watched the water. The water moved. It was fast. It was cold. It was alive.

I thought about my father. I thought about his face. I thought about his eyes. I thought about the moment he died. I thought about the thread. I thought about the snap.

I had not killed him. I had not touched the thread. I had only looked. I had only seen. But the seeing was enough. The seeing was the crime.

I was a traitor. I was a thief. I was a murderer.

***

I returned to the house. The house was dark. The house was quiet. I lit a candle. The flame was yellow. The flame was steady. I sat in the chair. I closed my eyes.

I reached out. I went into the dark. I went into the space between the breaths. I found the thread. It was not my father's. It was mine. It was thin. It was frayed. It was red. It was tied to the earth. The earth was pulling it down.

I pulled back.

The thread snapped.

I gasped. I fell out of the chair. I hit the floor. My body was heavy. My body was dead. I was dead. I was alive. I was both.

I opened my eyes. The room was dark. The candle was out. The air was cold. I was alone.

I got up. I walked to the window. I looked outside. The rain had stopped. The sky was clear. The stars were out. They were bright. They were cold. They were far away.

I was not a witch. I was a mirror. I reflected the truth. The truth was ugly. The truth was heavy. The truth was mine.

I went to the church. I knocked on the door. I knocked hard. I knocked until my hand hurt. I knocked until the wood cracked.

Father Thomas opened the door. He looked at me. His face was pale. His eyes were wide.

"Elara," he said.

"Let me in," I said.

"No."

"Let me in. I have something to tell you."

"What?"

"I am not a monster."

"You are a danger."

"I am a child."

He stepped back. He let me in.

I walked into the church. The pews were empty. The altar was dark. The candles were out. I walked to the front. I knelt. I put my head on the floor.

I did not pray. I did not beg. I did not ask for forgiveness.

I waited.

***

The years passed. The years were fast. The years were slow. I did not age. I did not change. I stayed the same. I stayed still.

My father had been dead for ten years. The village had forgotten him. The village had forgotten me. They spoke of me in whispers. They said I had left. They said I had died. They said I had gone to the city.

I did not go to the city. I stayed. I stayed in the house. I stayed in the dark. I stayed with the dead.

One day, a child came to the door. She was young. She was small. She had blue eyes. She had a bruise on her arm. She was crying.

"Please," she said. "Please help me."

I opened the door. I looked at her. I saw the fear in her eyes. I saw the pain in her face. I saw the thread. It was red. It was frayed. It was tied to the earth.

I did not pull back.

I reached out. I touched her hand. I closed my eyes. I went into the dark. I found the thread. I held it. I did not snap it. I held it. I warmed it. I strengthened it.

I opened my eyes.

The child looked at me. She did not fear me. She smiled. She touched my face. Her hand was warm. Her hand was alive.

"Thank you," she said.

I nodded. I did not speak. Words were not needed.

I closed the door. I sat in the chair. I looked at my hands. They were still. They were clean. They were mine.

I was not a monster. I was not a thief. I was not a murderer.

I was a keeper. I was a guardian. I was a mother.

I thought about my father. I thought about his face. I thought about his eyes. I thought about the moment he died.

I had not killed him. I had saved him. I had held him. I had let him go.

I was not a traitor. I was a daughter.

I stood up. I walked to the window. I looked outside. The rain was falling. The rain was soft. The rain was gentle.

I was not alone. I was never alone.

I was home.