The coat is heavy. It is wool. It is dark. It smells of damp stone and old blood. You wear it. It fits poorly. The shoulders are too wide. The sleeves are too long. You pull at the cuffs. They drag on the floor. You are a man of the law. You are a knight. You serve the King. You wear the King’s colors. But the coat is not yours. You bought it in a market. The seller was a ragged man. He did not look at your face. He looked at the coin in your hand. You paid. You walked away. The coat is a secret. It is a lie. It is a truth.

You stand in the courtyard. The stones are wet. Rain has fallen. The air is cold. You shiver. The wool is thick. It traps the heat. But it also traps the weight. You feel it on your back. It presses against your spine. You are Thomas Bradshaw. You are thirty years old. You have served for ten years. You have killed men. You have arrested men. You have saved men. You do not remember their names. You only remember the sound of their breath. It stops. Then it does not start again.

The castle is silent. The servants are gone. They fear the night. You stay. You must stay. There is a rumor. A woman lives in the east wing. She is not a lady. She is a spy. Or a witch. Or a ghost. The men whisper. They say she wears a golden mask. They say she knows things. They say she will end the King’s line. You do not believe in ghosts. You believe in steel. You believe in order. You believe in the coat.

You walk to the east wing. The hallway is long. The torches flicker. Shadows dance on the walls. They look like hands. They look like faces. You keep your hand on your sword. The hilt is cold. Your knuckles are white. The coat pulls at your shoulders. It feels like a hand holding you back. You want to take it off. You cannot. You do not know why. It is part of you now.

The door is open. The room is dark. You step inside. The floor is wood. It creaks under your boots. You hear breathing. It is not yours. It is soft. It is slow. You move forward. The air is thick. It smells of roses. It smells of decay. You see a shape by the window. It is small. It is still.

You approach. The shape is a woman. She is sitting in a chair. Her back is to you. She wears a dress of black silk. It is torn. It is dirty. She holds a mirror in her hand. The glass is cracked. She is looking at herself. You see her reflection. It is not a woman. It is a man. It is you.

You freeze. Your heart stops. The coat pulls tighter. You try to breathe. You cannot. The woman turns. She has no face. Where her face should be, there is only shadow. She opens her mouth. No sound comes out. She points to the coat. She points to the mirror. She points to the door.

You understand. You are the spy. You are the witch. You are the ghost. You are the thing they fear. You are the thing you hunt. The coat is the evidence. The coat is the identity. You wore it to hide. You wore it to become. You wore it to be strong. You wore it to be safe. But it is not safe. It is a cage.

You reach for your sword. Your hand shakes. The woman stands. She is tall. She is tall as you. She moves toward you. She moves slowly. She does not run. She does not fight. She simply walks. The floor creaks again. The torches die. The room is dark. You are in the dark. You are alone. The coat is heavy. It is crushing you.

You drop the sword. It hits the floor. It makes a loud clang. The sound echoes. The woman stops. She looks at the sword. She looks at you. She smiles. You see her teeth. They are white. They are sharp. She extends her hand. She offers you the mirror.

You take it. The glass is cold. You look into it. You see your face. It is old. It is tired. It is broken. The coat is in the reflection. It is tattered. It is stained. It is falling apart. You see the truth. The coat is not armor. The coat is a wound. It is the place where the self is cut away. You have been cutting yourself for ten years. You have been bleeding into the wool. You have been feeding the lie.

The woman takes the mirror back. She shatters it on the floor. The glass shreds. It cuts her hands. Blood drips. It is red. It is bright. She does not flinch. She looks at you. Her eyes are clear. They are empty. They are full.

You feel a release. The coat is light. It is no longer heavy. It is no longer tight. It is just wool. It is just cloth. It is nothing. You take it off. You peel it from your body. It falls to the floor. It pools like a dark puddle. You stand in your tunic. You are bare. You are exposed. You are small.

The woman walks past you. She goes to the window. She opens it. The wind blows in. It is cold. It is clean. It smells of rain. It smells of life. She steps out. She jumps. There is a sound. It is a thud. It is distant. It is final.

You stand in the room. You are alone. The glass is on the floor. The blood is on the floor. The coat is on the floor. You look at your hands. They are empty. They are free. You look at the door. You walk to it. You open it. The hallway is empty. The torches are out. The dark is deep.

You walk out of the castle. The rain has stopped. The sky is grey. The stars are coming out. They are faint. They are far. You walk down the hill. The grass is wet. It soaks your feet. You do not care. You walk to the village. The houses are dark. The people are asleep. They do not know what you have done. They do not know what you have lost.

You walk to the river. The water is black. It is still. You stand on the bank. You look at the water. You see your reflection. It is not a man. It is not a knight. It is a shadow. It is a ghost. It is you.

You think of the coat. It is back in the castle. It is in the room. It is with the blood. It is with the glass. It is with the silence. You left it there. You left it for them to find. You left it as a warning. You left it as a confession. You left it as a death.

You are Thomas Bradshaw. You are thirty years old. You have served for ten years. You have killed men. You have arrested men. You have saved men. You do not remember their names. You only remember the sound of their breath. It stops. Then it does not start again.

But now your breath is yours. It is deep. It is slow. It is real. You breathe in. You breathe out. The air is cold. It burns in your lungs. It is good. You are alive. You are free. You are alone.

The village wakes up. The chickens crow. The dogs bark. The sun rises. The light is pale. It is weak. It is new. You walk into the light. You do not hide. You do not run. You walk. Your feet are bare. Your body is bare. Your soul is bare.

You do not look back. You do not think of the coat. You do not think of the woman. You do not think of the King. You think of nothing. You think of the air. You think of the ground. You think of the silence.

The silence is loud. The silence is heavy. The silence is yours. You carry it. You carry it like a stone. You carry it like a song. You carry it like a truth.

You walk on. The road is long. The road is hard. The road is endless. You do not know where you are going. You do not know who you are. You do not know if you will live. You do not know if you will die.

You only know that you are here. You only know that you are now. You only know that you are free.

The coat is in the castle. It is in the dark. It is in the blood. It is in the glass. It is in the past. It is dead. It is finished. It is gone.

You are alive. You are awake. You are here.

The wind blows. The rain falls. The stars shine. The world turns. You turn with it. You do not fight. You do not hide. You do not wear. You are.

You are.

You are.

You are.