The wind bit. It cut through the wool of my cloak, a thin, sharp blade that never dulled. I walked. The road was grey. The sky was lower. I had no name. Or rather, I had a name, but the villagers did not know it. They knew me as the Hollow Man. They knew me as the thing that ate the letters. I was not a thing. I was a man. I was a shadow.

I walked toward the mill. The mill stood on the hill. It was old. Stone. Dark. The water below roared. It sounded like a beast. It sounded like grief. I needed the ink. I needed the paper. I needed the seal. I had carried the message for three days. My back ached. My soul ached more. The message was a scroll. It was tied with red ribbon. It was heavy. Heavier than lead. Heavier than guilt.

I reached the gate. The gate was iron. It was rusted. I knocked. No one came. The wind moaned in the bars. I waited. The cold seeped into my bones. I thought of the King. I thought of the law. I thought of the freedom I had bought with my blood. I had left the city. I had left the noise. I had left the people who looked at me with fear. I wanted silence. I wanted to be free. But freedom is a cage. You build it yourself. You lock the door from the inside.

A light flickered in the window. Small. Yellow. A candle. I watched it. It danced. It trembled. I pressed my hand against the iron. It was cold. It burned. I pulled my hand back. I looked at my fingers. They were black. They were stained with ink. The ink did not wash off. It went into the skin. It went into the blood. I am marked. I am branded. I am the scribe who betrayed the secret.

The door opened. A creak. A groan of wood. A woman stood there. She was old. Her face was a map of lines. Her eyes were bright. She held a lantern. The light caught my face. She did not scream. She did not step back. She looked at me. She looked at the scroll in my hand. She knew. She always knows. They all know. They know what I am. They know what I do.

You are late, she said. Her voice was dry. Like leaves in autumn.

The road was bad, I said. My voice was rough. Like gravel.

The road is always bad, she said. Step in.

I stepped in. The air inside was warm. It smelled of dust. It smelled of old paper. It smelled of time. The room was small. A table. A chair. A desk. The desk was covered in scrolls. Mountains of paper. I saw the seals. Red wax. Cracked. Broken. I saw the letters. They were dead. They were silent. I had killed them. I had carried them to the void. I had destroyed the words. I had erased the truth.

She poured a cup. I took it. My hands shook. The heat hurt. I drank. It was bitter. It was strong. It tasted of earth.

Why do you do it? she asked.

I looked at the cup. I saw my reflection. It was distorted. It was broken. I am the messenger, I said. I carry the word. I deliver the silence.

Silence is not a word, she said.

No, I said. It is a weight.

She sat down. She crossed her legs. She looked at the scrolls. She picked one up. She unrolled it. The paper was yellow. The ink was faded. She read it. She did not speak. She closed it. She put it back.

You are tired, she said.

I am always tired, I said.

Tiredness is a kind of death, she said. A slow death.

I nodded. I could not move. I could not speak. The scroll in my bag pulled at my shoulder. It wanted to be opened. It wanted to be read. I knew what was inside. It was a decree. It was a command. It was a death sentence. For me. For the town. For the wind. I had delivered it. I had fulfilled my duty. I had paid my price. But the price was not money. The price was memory. I was losing it. Piece by piece. Name by name. Face by face. I was becoming blank. I was becoming the paper.

Who am I? I asked.

You are the one who walks, she said.

Is that a name?

It is a life.

I looked at her. Her eyes were sad. They were deep. They held a darkness that matched mine. I felt a pull. A gravity. I wanted to stay. I wanted to sit. I wanted to forget the road. I wanted to let the ink dry. But I could not. The wind outside called. The cold called. The duty called. Duty is a chain. It is invisible. It is heavy. It drags you forward. You do not choose the path. The path chooses you.

I stood up. My knees cracked. I reached for my cloak. The scroll was heavy. It pressed against my chest. It beat like a heart. It was alive. It was dangerous. I had to go. I had to walk. I had to carry the silence to the next village. And the next. And the next. Until there were no more villages. Until there was no more land. Until I reached the edge of the world. And then what? I would turn back. I would walk again. I would carry the weight. I would carry the ghost.

She watched me. She did not stop me. She never stops me. She is the witness. She is the mirror. She sees me as I am. Not as I wish to be. Not as I pretend to be. I am the monster. I am the sinner. I am the one who speaks for the silent. I am the one who listens for the dead.

I walked to the door. I paused. I looked back.

Will I ever stop? I asked.

No, she said.

Is that a curse?

It is a gift, she said.

I did not understand. I never understand. I only carry. I only walk. I only suffer. I am free. I am free to be lost. I am free to be broken. I am free to be nothing. That is the freedom. That is the price. I paid it. I paid it in full. And yet I still bleed. And yet I still walk.

I opened the door. The wind hit me. It screamed. It howled. It tore at my cloak. I stepped out. The night was black. The stars were cold. The road stretched out. It was long. It was endless. I began to walk. My feet hit the dirt. Thud. Thud. Thud. A rhythm. A heartbeat. A pulse. I walked. I walked. I walked.

The scroll burned. The ink dried. The words faded. I was the vessel. I was the empty cup. I was the blank page. I was the silence. I was the whisper. I was the distant sound that no one hears. I was the ghost in the machine. I was the shadow in the light. I was the man who had no name. I was the man who had no home. I was the man who had no end.

I walked. The wind bit. The cold cut. The pain grew. I did not stop. I could not stop. I am the walker. I am the bearer. I am the witness. I am the ghost. I am the whisper. I am the silence. I am the end. I am the beginning. I am the middle. I am everything. I am nothing.

The road was grey. The sky was lower. I walked. I walked. I walked.