"You are late."

The voice was thin. It scraped against the air like a nail on slate. Silas did not look up from his hands. He was mending a glove. The leather was cracked. It smelled of old blood and iron. He stitched. The thread was black. It was thick.

"Forgive me, Lord Ashworth," Silas said. His voice was low. It was steady. He did not feel steady. He felt hollow. He felt like a bell with no tongue.

"I did not ask for forgiveness." Lord Ashworth sat in the chair by the window. The light was gray. It was the light of a city choking on coal smoke. It settled on his face. It made his skin look like wax. "I asked for the name."

Silas pulled the needle through the leather. A small tear. The skin wept a bead of sweat. He wiped it away. "I do not know a name, my Lord. I only know the shape."

"Shape is useless." Ashworth leaned forward. The shadows under his eyes deepened. They were pits. They were wells. "I have power. I have money. I have the city at my feet. I lack only the truth. And you... you lack the will to give it."

Silas tied off the thread. He cut it with his teeth. The taste was metallic. Cold. He placed the glove on the table. It was perfect. It was a lie.

"I have tried," Silas said. "The vision comes in fragments. Pieces of glass. They cut the mind. I cannot hold the whole."

"Then hold nothing." Ashworth stood up. He was tall. He was gaunt. He moved like a ghost in a suit of black wool. "You are a servant, Silas. Not a prophet. Stop the mysticism. It is a crutch. It is a failure."

Silas looked at the man. He saw the hunger. It was not for food. It was for control. It was for the certainty that the world was ordered. That the chaos could be pinned down. Like a butterfly under glass.

"I will try again," Silas whispered.

"Try." Ashworth turned. His coat billowed. It was a cape. It was a shroud. "Or you will find your poverty is not the only thing that defines you."

The door closed. The sound was a slam. It was a finality. Silas sat alone. The room was cold. The fire had died. The embers glowed red. They pulsed. They breathed.

He looked at the glove. He opened it. He closed it. The leather was soft. It was warm now. It had absorbed his heat. It had absorbed his fear.

He was a medium. That was what they called him. A conduit. A wire. He took the pain of the world and turned it into words. He took the secrets of the dead and sold them to the living. It was a trade. It was a trap.

He had come to this city with nothing. He had left the village with a dream. He had thought he could fix things. He had thought he could bridge the gap between the human and the divine. He had been wrong. The gap was a chasm. It was an abyss.

He stood up. His knees ached. His back was stiff. He was old. He was tired. He walked to the window. The city sprawled below. It was a beast. It was a machine. It ground and churned. It ate the poor and spat out the rich.

He pressed his face to the glass. The cold bit his skin. He saw the smoke. It rose. It coiled. It formed shapes. Faces. Hands. Reaching.

He pulled back. He was breathing hard. The air in his lungs burned. He went to the desk. He opened the drawer. He took out a notebook. The pages were stained. The ink was faded.

He began to write. He wrote the words. He wrote the shapes. He wrote the names. But the names slipped away. They turned to water. They turned to smoke.

He tried to grab them. He failed. He slammed the book shut. The cover cracked. The spine broke.

It was the third time. The first time was the vision of the fire. The second time was the vision of the flood. This was the third. The vision of the root.

The root was deep. It was black. It was tangled. It held the tree together. Without it, the tree fell. He had seen it in his mind. He had seen the root breaking. Shattering. Scattering into dust.

He looked at the glove again. It was just leather. It was just skin. It was a shell. A container for emptiness.

He remembered his master. Old Elias. He had taught Silas the ways. He had told him that power was a curse. That to see the truth was to lose the peace. Silas had ignored him. He had wanted to be special. He had wanted to be useful.

Elias was dead now. His body was in the ground. His bones were dust. His words were wind.

Silas picked up the glove. He put it on. It fit. It was tight. It constricted his hand. He felt a pulse. It was not his heart. It was something else. Something dark. Something hungry.

He looked at his hand. The fingers moved. They twitched. They danced. It was not his will. It was a puppetry.

"No," Silas said. The word was small. It was weak.

The glove tightened. The leather bit into the flesh. He felt the veins in his hand swell. He felt the bones crack.

He screamed. The sound was raw. It was animal. It tore from his throat. It filled the room. It shook the windows.

He tore the glove off. He threw it to the floor. It landed with a thud. It lay there. It looked like a corpse.

Silas fell to his knees. He breathed. He gasped. The air was sweet. It was clean. He laughed. It was a broken laugh. It was a sob.

He looked at the glove. He looked at his hand. The hand was bruised. It was purple. It was angry.

He stood up. He walked to the door. He opened it. The hallway was dark. The gaslight flickered. It buzzed. It hummed.

He walked down the stairs. His feet were bare. The stone was cold. He walked to the street. The rain had started. It was fine. It was cold. It misted his face.

He walked into the crowd. The people moved around him. They did not see him. They did not care. They were shadows. They were ghosts.

He walked to the park. The trees were bare. The branches were sticks. They pointed to the sky. They begged.

He sat on a bench. The wood was wet. It soaked through his clothes. He shivered. He huddled. He wrapped his arms around himself.

He thought of Lord Ashworth. He thought of the power. He thought of the money. He thought of the city.

He had been a fool. He had been a tool. He had let them use him. He had let them break him.

But he was not broken. He was whole. He was empty. And emptiness is a space. And space is infinite.

He closed his eyes. He breathed. He felt the rain. He felt the cold. He felt the life in his body. It was small. It was fragile. It was real.

He did not need the vision. He did not need the truth. He did not need the root.

He opened his eyes. The sun was breaking through the clouds. It was a pale light. It was a soft light. It touched his face.

He stood up. He walked away. He walked into the city. He walked into the future.

He did not look back. The glove was still on the floor in the room. It was still there. It was waiting.

But Silas was gone. He was free. He was nothing. And in being nothing, he was everything.

The rain stopped. The sky cleared. The city glittered. The smoke rose. The smoke formed a face. The face smiled.

Silas walked. He did not know where he was going. He did not care. He was alive. He was here. He was now.

And that was enough.