The rain tastes of iron.

You wake on the cold stone.

Your armor is wet. Heavy.

It clings to your ribs.

Like a dead thing.

You are Thomas.

You are a knight.

Or you were.

Time is a thief.

It steals your name.

It steals your strength.

It steals the color from the sky.

You are old.

The years have eaten you.

They chew on your bones.

They drink your blood.

You try to stand.

Your knees buckle.

They are rusted hinges.

You fall again.

The pain is sharp.

A white needle in your brain.

You look around.

Where are you?

The walls are high.

They are made of blue stone.

The air smells of ozone.

And old dust.

This is not the world.

This is the Dream.

The place where the dead go.

To wait.

To judge.

To be judged.

You hear a voice.

It is low.

It is kind.

"Rise, Sir Thomas."

You turn.

A man stands there.

He is tall.

He wears gray robes.

His face is smooth.

He is young.

Too young.

He holds a lantern.

The light is green.

It does not burn.

It glows.

"Who are you?" you ask.

Your voice is a rasp.

Like dry leaves on the floor.

"I am the Keeper," he says.

"I keep the records."

"Of what?"

"Of the oath."

You remember.

The oath.

You made it.

In a different life.

In a different time.

But the weight is the same.

You stand up.

Slowly.

The armor groans.

It is old steel.

It is heavy.

The Keeper walks away.

You follow.

He does not look back.

You are the shadow.

He is the light.

You walk through the halls.

The floors are wet.

The walls are cold.

The air is thick.

You feel the eyes of the dead.

They watch you.

They wait.

You are not alone.

You are surrounded.

But they are silent.

They are still.

The Keeper stops.

He points to a door.

It is black wood.

It is tall.

It has no handle.

Only a keyhole.

Small.

Round.

Cold.

"Open it," he says.

"I cannot."

"Use your will."

You try.

Your hand shakes.

The keyhole stares at you.

It is a void.

It swallows light.

You push.

The door does not move.

It is solid.

It is eternal.

"Why?" you ask.

"Because you have not paid."

"Paid?"

"The debt."

"What debt?"

"The one you owed."

You do not remember.

You are tired.

So tired.

The years have worn you down.

Your mind is fog.

"Show me," you say.

The Keeper nods.

He touches the door.

The stone dissolves.

Like sugar in water.

You step inside.

The room is empty.

Except for a table.

On the table is a book.

It is thick.

It is black.

It is bound in leather.

You open it.

The pages are blank.

You feel a surge of rage.

It is hot.

It is bright.

It burns in your chest.

"What is this?" you shout.

"The truth," the Keeper says.

He stands in the doorway.

His face is calm.

"Read."

You look at the pages.

The words appear.

They are red.

They are fresh.

They are your name.

Thomas Bradshaw.

Knight of the North.

Accused of treason.

Executed in the square.

The words twist.

They bite.

They scream.

You did not do it.

You know it.

You felt the blade.

You saw the eyes.

The people who watched.

They did not know.

They were afraid.

They were hungry.

They wanted a monster.

You were the monster.

You were the sacrifice.

The system ate you.

The court was blind.

The judge was drunk.

The evidence was fake.

You died for nothing.

You died for them.

And now you are here.

In the dark.

In the cold.

In the waiting.

The rage is a fire.

It consumes you.

You want to break the book.

You want to break the Keeper.

You want to break the world.

You lunge forward.

Your sword is gone.

Your hands are empty.

You strike the air.

It is useless.

It is void.

The Keeper does not move.

He is still.

He is stone.

"Anger is a chain," he says.

"It binds you here."

"I am not bound."

"You are."

"Let me go."

"I cannot."

"Then kill me."

"Death is a door."

"You are the door."

"I am the lock."

You stop.

You breathe.

The air is hard.

It hurts your lungs.

You look at the book.

The words are still there.

Your name.

Your death.

Your lie.

You close the book.

The cover is smooth.

It is cold.

You pick it up.

It is heavy.

Heavier than your armor.

Heavier than your sins.

You carry it.

You walk out of the room.

The Keeper is waiting.

He looks at you.

His eyes are deep.

He sees the book.

He sees your face.

You are pale.

You are hollow.

You are empty.

You place the book on the floor.

You bow.

Your head touches the stone.

The pain is gone.

The rage is gone.

The fire is out.

The ash remains.

The Keeper kneels.

He is lower than you.

He is a child.

He is a servant.

He looks up at you.

His face is soft.

His eyes are wet.

"Thank you," he whispers.

"For the truth."

You look at him.

You do not understand.

But you feel it.

A release.

A sigh.

A breath.

The walls begin to fade.

The blue stone turns to mist.

The green light fades.

The air changes.

It smells of rain.

Real rain.

Clean rain.

You are standing in a field.

The grass is green.

The sky is gray.

The clouds are low.

You are old.

Your hair is white.

Your beard is long.

You are kneeling in the mud.

You are not dead.

You are alive.

The years have passed.

The war is over.

The court is gone.

The judge is dead.

The people have forgotten.

But you remember.

You remember the lie.

You remember the pain.

You remember the dark.

You look around.

You are alone.

But you are not.

The wind blows.

It is cold.

It is sharp.

It cuts your skin.

You stand up.

Your legs are weak.

But they hold.

You walk.

You do not know where.

You do not need to.

The path is clear.

The road is long.

The sun is setting.

The light is gold.

It is warm.

It is gentle.

It is kind.

You walk into the light.

Your shadow stretches behind you.

It is long.

It is thin.

It is fading.

You are not a knight.

You are not a soldier.

You are not a man.

You are a memory.

You are a ghost.

You are a truth.

And the truth is free.

The rain stops.

The sky clears.

The stars come out.

They are bright.

They are cold.

They are far.

You look up.

You see them.

They are watching.

They are waiting.

They are silent.

You smile.

It is a small smile.

It is sad.

It is sweet.

You close your eyes.

You let go.

The weight is gone.

The armor is gone.

The book is gone.

You are light.

You are air.

You are nothing.

And that is enough.

The world is quiet.

The world is still.

The world is waiting.

For the next story.

For the next lie.

For the next truth.

You are gone.

But the truth remains.

It is in the wind.

It is in the rain.

It is in the stone.

It is in the air.

It is in you.

It is in me.

It is in everyone.

It is eternal.

It is real.

It is here.

Now.

Listen.

Can you hear it?

The wind.

The rain.

The stone.

The truth.

It is singing.

It is whispering.

It is calling.

To you.

To me.

To us.

We are all here.

We are all waiting.

We are all free.

Let go.

Let go.

Let go.

The light is gone.

The dark is here.

But the dark is kind.

The dark is warm.

The dark is home.

You are home.

You are safe.

You are loved.

You are known.

You are forgiven.

You are free.

The end.