The mud was deep.

It sucked at their boots.

Holloway fell.

He hit the earth.

Hard.

He tried to rise.

His legs were lead.

Heavy.

Cold.

Rain poured down.

It stung his face.

He saw them.

Two figures.

Black coats.

White gloves.

They stood over him.

One spoke.

His voice was flat.

"Stop moving."

Holloway stopped.

He lay there.

Breathing.

Fast.

Shallow.

"Who are you?" he asked.

His voice cracked.

The man in front stepped closer.

He did not answer.

He looked at Holloway.

Then he looked up.

At the house.

The house was stone.

Grey.

Old.

It loomed above them.

A fortress.

A tomb.

The man turned back.

"Get up."

Holloway tried.

He failed.

He slid back.

Mud filled his mouth.

He spat it out.

"I need help," he said.

"No," the man said.

"Why?"

"Because you are the problem."

Holloway blinked.

Rain dripped from his nose.

"Problem?"

"You broke the rule."

"I didn't know the rule."

"Everyone knows."

The man knelt.

He was close now.

Holloway could smell him.

Tobacco.

Sweat.

Old paper.

"Who are you?" Holloway asked again.

"My name is Silas."

Silas.

A strange name.

"Silas," Holloway said.

"It is not your name."

"It is my name."

"You are not a cop."

"No."

"Then what are you?"

"A keeper."

"Of what?"

"Of the house."

Holloway looked at the house.

The windows were dark.

One pane was broken.

A spiderweb hung in the frame.

"Who lives there?" Holloway asked.

"No one."

"Then why is it locked?"

"Because it must be."

"By whom?"

"By us."

"We?"

"Silas and I."

The second man stepped forward.

He was younger.

His face was pale.

He held a torch.

The light flickered.

"Let him go," the young man said.

Silas looked at him.

"Shut up, Thomas."

"He is bleeding."

"He is dirty."

"He is not a criminal."

"He is a thief."

Holloway sat up.

The pain was sharp.

In his ribs.

"He is not a thief," Holloway said.

"Prove it."

"I have no proof."

"You have a key."

Holloway touched his pocket.

It was wet.

He pulled it out.

A brass key.

Cold.

Heavy.

"I found it," Holloway said.

"In the garden."

"Lies."

"I swear."

Silas took the key.

He turned it in his hand.

It clicked.

A small sound.

But it echoed.

"Where else?" Silas asked.

"Where?"

"The other key."

"I don't have it."

"You do."

"Ask him." Holloway pointed at Thomas.

Thomas looked at Silas.

"He does not have it."

Silas frowned.

"Thomas."

"I am telling the truth."

Silas stood up.

He looked at the house.

Then at Holloway.

"You are lying."

"No."

"Then you will stay."

"Stay where?"

"Here."

"In the mud?"

"Yes."

"Until when?"

"Until you remember."

Holloway shook his head.

"I don't remember anything."

"You will."

Silas turned away.

He walked toward the house.

Thomas hesitated.

He looked at Holloway.

"Are you hurt?" Thomas asked.

Holloway touched his side.

Blood on his fingers.

"A little."

"Should we call someone?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because no one will come."

Thomas looked at Silas.

Silas was at the door.

He tried the lock.

It did not open.

He tried again.

Still locked.

Silas struck the door.

Once.

Twice.

"Open!" he shouted.

The door did not move.

Silas pulled.

His face turned red.

Veins in his neck.

"Come on," he muttered.

He struck it again.

Hard.

The wood splintered.

Silas gasped.

He pulled back his hand.

Blood dripped from his palm.

Thomas stepped forward.

"Silas."

"Shut up."

"Stop."

Silas looked at Thomas.

His eyes were wild.

"Open it," Silas said.

"I can't."

"Then break it."

"We can't break it."

"Why?"

"Because it is not wood."

Silas stopped.

He looked at the door.

It was wood.

Oak.

Dark.

But it was wood.

"Silas," Thomas said.

His voice was soft.

"Look at me."

Silas turned.

His chest heaved.

"Thomas."

"I am your brother."

Silas blinked.

"I know."

"Remember?"

"I remember."

"Then stop."

Silas lowered his hand.

He looked at the blood.

He wiped it on his coat.

Then he looked at Holloway.

Holloway was watching.

His heart beat fast.

"Who is this?" Silas asked.

Thomas shook his head.

"I don't know."

"Then leave."

"Silas."

"Leave him."

"Wait."

Thomas walked to Holloway.

He knelt.

He took Holloway’s face.

His hands were warm.

"Can you see me?" Thomas asked.

Holloway nodded.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Thomas."

"I know."

"Do you know me?"

Holloway looked into his eyes.

Blue.

Clear.

Like a winter sky.

"Yes," Holloway whispered.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Say my name."

"Thomas."

"Say her name."

Holloway frowned.

"Who?"

"Her."

"I don't know a her."

"You do."

"I don't."

Thomas’s face fell.

Disappointment.

Sadness.

"Silas," Thomas said.

"Come here."

Silas walked over.

He looked at Holloway.

"Say it," Silas said.

"I can't."

"Try."

Holloway closed his eyes.

He tried.

He reached for the word.

It was on the tip of his tongue.

But it slipped.

Like water.

Like smoke.

He opened his eyes.

"I can't."

Silas nodded.

"Then you are a stranger."

"Wait," Thomas said.

"Let me try."

"No."

"Silas."

"No."

Silas turned away.

He walked back to the door.

He placed his hand on it.

He closed his eyes.

He breathed.

In.

Out.

The door creaked.

A small sound.

But it was there.

The lock clicked.

The door opened.

A crack.

Just an inch.

Darkness spilled out.

Silas pushed.

The door swung wide.

The house was empty.

No furniture.

No light.

Just dust.

And shadows.

Silas stepped inside.

Thomas followed.

Holloway stayed.

He wanted to follow.

But his legs would not move.

He was stuck.

In the mud.

In the rain.

He watched them go.

Silas walked into the dark.

Thomas followed.

They disappeared.

Holloway was alone.

The rain continued.

It washed over him.

Cold.

Clean.

He looked at the key.

Still in his hand.

He looked at the house.

The door was open.

Dark.

Waiting.

He stood up.

Pain shot through him.

He gritted his teeth.

He walked toward the house.

Step by step.

Mud sucked at his boots.

He reached the door.

He looked inside.

Silas stood in the center of the room.

He held something in his hand.

A small box.

Wooden.

Old.

Thomas stood behind him.

Silas turned.

He saw Holloway.

He did not look surprised.

"Come in," Silas said.

Holloway stepped inside.

The door closed behind him.

The sound was final.

Thud.

Silas extended his hand.

The box.

"Open it," Silas said.

Holloway took the box.

It was light.

He looked at it.

No lock.

No key.

Just a lid.

He lifted it.

Inside was a letter.

Paper.

Yellowed.

Fragile.

Holloway picked it up.

He unfolded it.

The handwriting was shaky.

Faint.

He read.

"My dearest Margaret. I am leaving. I am sorry. I could not bear the weight. I leave you the house. I leave you the truth. I leave you my love. Always. Edward."

Holloway looked up.

Silas was watching him.

"Is that your wife?" Silas asked.

Holloway looked at the name.

Margaret.

He knew that name.

It was his name.

No.

It was his wife’s name.

He remembered.

The pain in his head was gone.

Clarity.

Sharp.

Bright.

"I am Edward," Holloway said.

Silas nodded.

"I know."

"Who are you?"

"I am your brother."

Thomas stepped forward.

"I am Thomas," he said.

Holloway looked at him.

Recognition.

Pain.

Joy.

"Thomas," Holloway said.

"We lost you," Thomas said.

His voice broke.

"We looked for you."

"For years."

"Where were you?"

"In the house."

"Alone?"

"No."

"Who with?"

"Silas."

Silas stepped back.

Into the shadows.

"He kept me," Silas said.

"He kept me safe."

"Safe from what?" Holloway asked.

"From the world."

"From me?"

"From your guilt."

Holloway looked at the letter.

The ink was fresh.

Not old.

Not yellowed.

It was new.

He looked at Silas.

"Did you write this?"

Silas did not answer.

"Did you write this?" Holloway asked again.

Loud.

Silas nodded.

"I wrote it."

"Why?"

"To help you remember."

"To help me forget."

"No."

"To help you forgive."

Holloway looked at the box.

He looked at the letter.

He looked at the house.

The house was not a prison.

It was a shelter.

A place to hide.

But it was also a lie.

A comfortable lie.

Holloway folded the letter.

He put it in his pocket.

He walked to the door.

He opened it.

The rain was still falling.

But it was softer now.

Gentler.

He stepped out.

Silas followed.

Thomas followed.

They stood in the yard.

The mud was under their feet.

The rain was on their faces.

Holloway looked at the house.

He looked at his brothers.

"I am leaving," Holloway said.

Silas nodded.

"Where?"

"Anywhere."

"Back to the world?"

"Yes."

"Are you ready?"

Holloway thought.

He thought of Margaret.

He thought of the guilt.

He thought of the years.

The long, dark years.

He was ready.

Not because he had no guilt.

But because he had to live.

With it.

"I am," Holloway said.

Silas reached into his coat.

He pulled out the brass key.

He handed it to Holloway.

"Keep it," Silas said.

"For the door."

"For the house?"

"For yourself."

Holloway took the key.

It was warm.

He looked at Silas.

"Thank you."

Silas smiled.

It was a small smile.

Sad.

Tired.

"You are welcome."

Thomas stepped forward.

He hugged Holloway.

Hard.

Tight.

Holloway hugged him back.

They held each other.

In the rain.

In the mud.

In the dark.

It was enough.

For now.

Holloway pulled away.

He walked away.

Down the path.

Toward the town.

Toward the light.

He did not look back.

He did not need to.

He knew they were there.

Watching.

Waiting.

But he was going.

He was free.

Or so it seemed.

The key was in his pocket.

Heavy.

Real.

He walked into the night.

The rain stopped.

The clouds broke.

A single star appeared.

Bright.

Cold.

Distant.

Holloway walked on.

Into the dark.

Into the world.

Into the life he had lost.

And found.

And lost again.

And found again.

It was a cycle.

A circle.

A wistful cipher.

Unsolvable.

Unbreakable.

He walked.

And walked.

And walked.