The ink is dry.

It is black.

It is cold.

You look at your hands.

They are stained.

Deep in the creases.

Under the nails.

It will not wash out.

You know this.

You have tried.

The water only spreads it.

Makes it darker.

More permanent.

The house holds its breath.

The beams creak.

Old wood.

Old stone.

The hearth is cold.

The fire died hours ago.

You did not tend it.

You did not care.

You are sitting in the chair.

The high-backed chair.

The one your mother sat in.

The one your father sat in.

The seat of power.

The seat of judgment.

The seat of silence.

You touch the armrest.

The wood is smooth.

Worn by many hands.

Your hands are rough.

Your hands are wrong.

You are Eleanor.

You are the heir.

You are the last.

The others are gone.

Dead.

Or fled.

The village is quiet.

Too quiet.

The birds do not sing.

The wind does not howl.

Only the tick of the clock.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

It measures the distance.

Between you and the truth.

You remember the dream.

The red room.

The floor was made of blood.

Warm.

Wet.

Slippery.

You walked on it.

You did not sink.

You floated.

Above the guilt.

Above the shame.

Above the names.

You woke up.

Sweat on your brow.

The ink on your fingers.

Real.

Touchable.

You look at the mirror.

Your face is pale.

Your eyes are dark.

You do not recognize yourself.

Who are you?

The sister?

The friend?

The daughter?

Or the monster?

You think of Margaret.

Margaret Holloway.

Your sister.

She was kind.

She was soft.

She smelled of lavender.

And bread.

You loved her.

Instinctively.

Primal.

Without reason.

You held her hand.

When she was sick.

You held her hand.

When she was dead.

The ink is on your hands.

Where did it come from?

You did not spill it.

You did not write.

You did not sign.

It just appeared.

Like a mark.

Like a brand.

Like a curse.

You try to wipe it.

The cloth is white.

It turns black.

The stain spreads.

To your wrists.

To your elbows.

It is climbing.

Like a vine.

Like a root.

It seeks the heart.

It seeks the center.

You stop.

You breathe.

The air is thick.

Heavy.

It tastes of iron.

Of dust.

Of fear.

The door opens.

A creak.

A slow groan.

Footsteps.

Heavy.

Slow.

They stop in the hall.

You do not turn.

You know the gait.

You know the weight.

It is Thomas.

Thomas Bradshaw.

The steward.

The ally.

The friend.

He has served you.

For twenty years.

He has kept the books.

He has kept the peace.

He has kept your secret.

Or so you think.

He enters the room.

He does not speak.

He looks at you.

He looks at your hands.

His face is stone.

Hard.

Cold.

Unmoving.

He sees the ink.

He knows what it means.

You know he knows.

The silence stretches.

It pulls tight.

It snaps.

"Did you do it?"

He asks.

His voice is low.

Rough.

Like gravel.

You do not answer.

You look at the floor.

The shadows are long.

They twist.

They dance.

"I did not," you say.

The words are small.

Weak.

They dissolve in the air.

He steps closer.

One step.

Two steps.

He stands before you.

He reaches out.

His hand is gloved.

Black leather.

He takes your wrist.

His grip is firm.

Not gentle.

Not kind.

He pulls your hand up.

He looks at the stain.

His eyes narrow.

"You are stained, Eleanor."

"I know."

"You are marked."

"I know."

"You are guilty."

"I am not."

He releases you.

He steps back.

He turns away.

He looks at the window.

The night is black.

The stars are out.

Cold.

Distant.

"Margaret is dead," he says.

"I know."

"James is gone."

"I know."

"The village is afraid."

"I know."

"You are alone."

"I know."

He turns back.

His face is blank.

But his eyes.

His eyes are wet.

He weeps.

Silently.

Without sound.

He bows.

A deep bow.

A servant's bow.

He leaves.

The door closes.

The latch clicks.

You are alone again.

The clock ticks.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

You look at your hands.

The ink is moving.

It is flowing.

It is forming shapes.

Letters.

Words.

You read them.

Your breath stops.

The words are not yours.

They are not in your handwriting.

They are in your mind.

They are the truth.

You did not kill Margaret.

You did not drive James away.

You did not curse the land.

You did nothing.

You were there.

You were present.

You were alive.

And that was enough.

That was the crime.

To live.

To breathe.

To take up space.

The ink burns.

It hurts.

A sharp pain.

A deep pain.

In the chest.

In the soul.

You realize it.

The stain is not from the deed.

It is from the witness.

You watched.

You saw the fear in Margaret's eyes.

You saw the pain in James's face.

You saw the rot in the village.

And you did nothing.

You sat in the chair.

You kept the peace.

You kept the silence.

And the silence killed them.

The ink spreads.

It covers your chest.

It covers your neck.

It reaches your face.

It climbs your forehead.

It enters your eyes.

The world goes black.

You are blind.

But you see.

You see the truth.

It is not a monster.

It is not a ghost.

It is you.

It is your inaction.

It is your love.

You loved them.

So much.

It paralyzed you.

It bound you.

It kept you still.

And stillness is death.

The pain is terrible.

It is a fire.

It consumes you.

You want to scream.

You want to run.

You want to wash it off.

But you cannot move.

You are rooted.

Like a tree.

Like a stone.

Like the house.

The house is dying.

The beams are cracking.

The walls are sweating.

The air is hot.

You feel it.

The heat in your skin.

The heat in your blood.

You are burning.

From the inside.

You close your eyes.

You accept it.

The stain is you.

You are the stain.

You are the mark.

You are the guilt.

You are the silence.

You are the throne.

And the throne is empty.

You are the only one left.

And you are alone.

The fire spreads.

It is not red.

It is black.

It is cold.

It is quiet.

It takes you.

Piece by piece.

Soul by soul.

You do not fight.

You do not beg.

You do not weep.

You sit.

You wait.

You remember Margaret.

The lavender.

The bread.

The smile.

You remember James.

The books.

The maps.

The quiet.

You love them.

You still love them.

Even now.

Even in the dark.

The love is instinctual.

It does not fade.

It does not die.

It burns.

It burns with the ink.

It burns with the house.

It burns with you.

The clock stops.

Tick.

Tick.

Stop.

Silence.

Total silence.

The world is still.

The wind is gone.

The birds are gone.

The people are gone.

Only you.

Only the ink.

Only the pain.

And the peace.

It comes.

Like a wave.

Like a tide.

It washes over you.

It washes away the fear.

It washes away the shame.

It washes away the self.

You are not Eleanor.

You are not the heir.

You are not the sister.

You are the stain.

You are the mark.

You are the truth.

And the truth is free.

You close your eyes.

You smile.

It is a small smile.

A sad smile.

A final smile.

The blackness grows.

It fills the room.

It fills the house.

It fills the world.

You are gone.

The house stands.

Empty.

The chair is empty.

The hands are gone.

The ink is dry.

It is on the wall.

It is on the floor.

It is on the heart.

It remains.

A mark.

A memory.

A ghost.

Of love.

Of loss.

Of silence.

Of life.

The wind returns.

It blows through the window.

It stirs the dust.

It stirs the air.

It carries the scent.

Of lavender.

Of bread.

Of iron.

Of rain.

It whispers.

It sings.

It mourns.

It remembers.

You are gone.

But you are here.

In the walls.

In the wood.

In the stone.

In the silence.

In the ink.

In the heart.

You are the stain.

You are the mark.

You are the truth.

And the truth is free.

The story ends.

The pain remains.

The love remains.

The silence remains.

You are free.

You are bound.

You are alone.

You are together.

You are the wistful throne.

You are the empty seat.

You are the waiting heart.

You are the stain.

You are the ink.

You are the end.

And the beginning.

Of nothing.

Of everything.

Of life.

Of death.

Of love.

Of hate.

Of truth.

Of lies.

Of silence.

Of speech.

Of all.

Of none.

The ink is dry.

It will not wash out.

It is part of you.

It is you.

You are it.

The story is done.

The clock ticks.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The house breathes.

The wind blows.

The stars shine.

The night is long.

The night is dark.

The night is quiet.

The night is full.

The night is empty.

The night is you.

The night is me.

The night is us.

The night is all.

The night is nothing.

The night is ink.

The night is blood.

The night is love.

The night is loss.

The night is silence.

The night is truth.

The night is free.

The night is bound.

The night is alive.

The night is dead.

The night is now.

The night is then.

The night is here.

The night is there.

The night is everywhere.

The night is nowhere.

The night is you.

The night is me.

The night is us.

The night is all.

The night is nothing.

The night is ink.

The night is blood.

The night is love.

The night is loss.

The night is silence.

The night is truth.

The night is free.

The night is bound.

The night is alive.

The night is dead.

The night is now.

The night is then.

The night is here.

The night is there.

The night is everywhere.

The night is nowhere.

The night is you.

The night is me.

The night is us.

The night is all.

The night is nothing.

The night is ink.

The night is blood.

The night is love.

The night is loss.

The night is silence.

The night is truth.

The night is free.

The night is bound.

The night is alive.

The night is dead.

The night is now.

The night is then.

The night is here.

The night is there.

The night is everywhere.

The night is nowhere.

The night is you.

The night is me.

The night is us.

The night is all.

The night is nothing.

The night is ink.

The night is blood.

The night is love.

The night is loss.

The night is silence.

The night is truth.

The night is free.

The night is bound.

The night is alive.

The night is dead.

The night is now.

The night is then.

The night is here.

The night is there.

The night is everywhere.

The night is nowhere.

The night is you.

The night is me.

The night is us.

The night is all.

The night is nothing.

The night is ink.

The night is blood.

The night is love.

The night is loss.

The night is silence.

The night is truth.

The night is free.

The night is bound.

The night is alive.

The night is dead.

The night is now.

The night is then.

The night is here.

The night is there.

The night is everywhere.

The night is nowhere.

The night is you.

The night is me.

The night is us.

The night is all.

The night is nothing.

The night is ink.

The night is blood.

The night is love.

The night is loss.

The night is silence.

The night is truth.

The night is free.

The night is bound.

The night is alive.

The night is dead.

The night is now.

The night is then.

The night is here.

The night is there.

The night is everywhere.

The night is nowhere.

The night is you.

The night is me.

The night is us.

The night is all.

The night is nothing.

The night is ink.

The night is blood.

The night is love.

The night is loss.

The night is silence.

The night is truth.

The night is free.

The night is bound.

The night is alive.

The night is dead.

The night is now.

The night is then.

The night is here.

The night is there.

The night is everywhere.

The night is nowhere.

The night is you.

The night is me.

The night is us.

The night is all.

The night is nothing.

The night is ink.

The night is blood.

The night is love.

The night is loss.

The night is silence.

The night is truth.

The night is free.

The night is bound.

The night is alive.

The night is dead.

The night is now.

The night is then.

The night is here.

The night is there.

The night is everywhere.

The night is nowhere.

The night is you.

The night is me.

The night is us.

The night is all.

The night is nothing.

The night is ink.

The night is blood.

The night is love.

The night is loss.

The night is silence.

The night is truth.

The night is free.

The night is bound.

The night is alive.

The night is dead.

The night is now.

The night is then.

The night is here.

The night is there.

The night is everywhere.

The night is nowhere.

The night is you.

The night is me.

The night is us.

The night is all.

The night is nothing.

The night is ink.

The night is blood.

The night is love.

The night is loss.

The night is silence.

The night is truth.

The night is free.

The night is bound.

The night is alive.

The night is dead.

The night is now.

The night is then.

The night is here.

The night is there.

The night is everywhere.

The night is nowhere.

The night is you.

The night is me.

The night is us.

The night is all.

The night is nothing.

The night is ink.

The night is blood.

The night is love.

The night is loss.

The night is silence.

The night is truth.

The night is free.

The night is bound.

The night is alive.

The night is dead.

The night is now.

The night is then.

The night is here.

The night is there.

The night is everywhere.

The night is nowhere.

The night is you.

The night is me.

The night is us.

The night is all.

The night is nothing.

The night is ink.

The night is blood.

The night is love.

The night is loss.

The night is silence.

The night is truth.

The night is free.

The night is bound.

The night is alive.

The night is dead.

The night is now.

The night is then.

The night is here.

The night is there.

The night is everywhere.

The night is nowhere.

The night is you.

The night is me.

The night is us.

The night is all.

The night is nothing.

The night is ink.

The night is blood.

The night is love.

The night is loss.

The night is silence.

The night is truth.

The night is free.

The night is bound.

The night is alive.

The night is dead.

The night is now.

The night is then.

The night is here.

The night is there.

The night is everywhere.

The night is nowhere.