The wind does not knock. It scrapes.

You stand at the edge of the moor. The grass is high, yellowed by a long, dry summer, and it bends under the weight of the cold air. You are not human. You know this. The skin on your hands is too pale, the bones too sharp. You are a creature of the old blood, a thing that belongs to the shadows between the hedges. But you wear a coat. You wear a hat. You walk among the living, and you try to make them forget.

Your name is Elias. It is a name for men. It is a lie.

You are here for Thomas. Your brother. Or the thing that remains of him. He is the last one. The last of the Holloways who still remember the songs. The rest have sold their blood for coin and comfort. They have moved to the city, to the houses with gas lamps and clean floors. They have forgotten how to bleed. Thomas has not. He is trapped in the manor, a prisoner of his own lineage, a ghost in a house that breathes.

You have come to free him. Or so you tell yourself.

The path is treacherous. Roots claw at your boots. The sky is a bruise, purple and swollen. You move quickly. Your heart beats a strange rhythm, faster than a man’s, slower than a bird’s. You feel the eyes of the village on your back. They know. They always know. They see the way you move, the way you do not blink enough. They whisper in their taverns. They cross themselves when you pass.

You are a monster. You have accepted this. It is the price of survival. To be different is to be prey.

But Thomas is not prey. He is your anchor. He is the only one who looks at you and sees a brother, not a beast. He is the reason you endure.

The manor rises from the mist. It is a dark shape against the gray sky, a jagged tooth in the jaw of the hill. The windows are dark, save for one. A single candle burns on the top floor. It flickers. It dances. It is a promise.

You climb the hill. The air grows thinner. The silence is heavy. It presses against your eardrums. You reach the gate. It is iron, rusted, twisted by time and neglect. You push it open. It groans. The sound is a scream.

You step inside.

The garden is dead. The roses are black. The stones are cracked. Moss eats the walls. It is a place of decay. It is a place of waiting.

You enter the house. The floorboards creak. They know your weight. They remember your steps. You go up the stairs. The wood is cold. The air is stale. It smells of dust and old paper and something else. Something metallic. Blood.

You reach the top floor. The door is open.

Thomas is there.

He sits in a chair by the window. He is thin. His face is gray. His eyes are closed. He looks like a piece of driftwood washed up on the shore of time.

You stop. Your breath catches.

You look at him. You wait. You do not speak.

He opens his eyes.

They are not his eyes.

They are wide. They are clear. They are empty.

"Hello, Elias," he says.

His voice is smooth. It is polite. It is the voice of a stranger.

You step forward. "Thomas?"

He smiles. It does not reach his eyes. "Sit down. Please."

You do not sit. You stand. You are a creature of instinct. You sense the wrongness. The air in the room is thick. It is heavy with a presence that is not Thomas.

"Who are you?" you ask.

"I am Thomas," he says. "Or what is left of him."

You take a step back. Your heart hammers. You look at his hands. They are steady. They are pale. They are the hands of a man who has forgotten how to tremble.

"I came to save you," you say.

Thomas laughs. It is a dry sound. Like leaves skittering on stone. "Save me? From what?"

"From this place. From them. From the curse."

"There is no curse," Thomas says. "There is only choice."

He stands up. He is taller than you remember. He moves with a grace that is unnatural. He walks to the window. He looks out at the moor. The wind howls.

"They are coming," he says.

"Who?"

"The people. The ones who want us gone."

You look at the door. It is closed. You can hear the sound outside. Footsteps. Many of them. The sound of boots on gravel. The sound of voices.

They are here.

You turn to Thomas. "We must go. Now."

"No," he says. "I cannot go."

"Why?"

"Because I am not the same," he says. "I have changed. I have let them in."

You stare at him. You do not understand.

"They took my anger," he says. "They took my fear. They took my blood. They gave me peace."

You feel a chill. It is not from the cold. It is from the truth.

"They killed you," you say.

Thomas looks at you. His eyes are kind. They are sad. "They saved me. Don’t you see, Elias? We are not meant to be here. We are a mistake. A blight. They have fixed it."

You shake your head. "You are lying."

"Am I?"

He holds out his hand. "Come. Look."

You do not move.

"Look at your hands," he says.

You look down. Your hands are trembling. The skin is peeling. The bones are shifting. You are unraveling. The mask is slipping. The monster is coming out.

"See?" Thomas says. "It is painful. It is endless. You are in pain. I am not."

You close your eyes. You try to hold it in. You try to hold the line between you and the thing you are. But the line is breaking. The voices outside are getting louder. They are chanting. They are singing. It is a song of hate. A song of fear.

"Let it go," Thomas says. "Let it go, Elias. Stop fighting. Stop pretending. You are not human. You never were. Why do you suffer for a lie?"

You open your eyes. You look at your brother. You see the truth. He is not Thomas. He is the end of the road. He is the peace that comes after the pain. He is the death of the self.

And you want it.

God help you, you want it.

You want to stop the screaming in your head. You want to stop the cold in your bones. You want to stop being the other.

You step forward.

"Thomas," you say.

"I am here," he says.

"I forgive you," you say.

He smiles. It is the first true smile you have seen from him in years. "I know."

The door bursts open.

Light floods the room. It is blinding. It is white. It is hot.

Men stand in the doorway. They hold torches. They hold sticks. They hold hatred. Their faces are twisted. Their eyes are wild.

"Monster!" one of them shouts.

"Kill it!" another screams.

They rush in.

You do not run. You do not fight. You stand still.

You look at Thomas.

He is fading. His body is turning to mist. He is leaving. He is finally free.

"Goodbye, brother," you whisper.

He does not answer. He is gone.

The men reach you.

You raise your hands.

You do not strike. You do not defend.

You open your arms.

You accept the blow.

The fire touches you.

The pain is sharp. It is bright. It is clean.

And then, it is over.

The screaming stops. The cold stops. The fear stops.

You are gone.

The moor is quiet.

The wind stops.

The garden is pale.

The garden is still.

You are no longer there.

You are everywhere.

You are the wind.

You are the mist.

You are the memory.

You are the truth.

And it is enough.

It is enough.

It is enough.

The end is not a defeat.

It is a release.

It is a homecoming.

You were never lost.

You were only waiting.

To be found.

To be known.

To be free.

The fire dies down.

The ashes settle.

The night is deep.

The stars are bright.

They watch.

They remember.

They keep the secret.

You are safe.

You are still.

You are at rest.

In the pale garden.

In the silence.

In the peace.

You are home.