The road was red. It was wet. It tasted of iron. I walked. My legs were heavy. The mud sucked at my boots. *Thwack. Thwack.* The sound was loud. It was the only sound.

I carried the box. It was small. It was made of oak. It was old. The wood was gray. It was worn smooth. My hands were wrapped around it. My knuckles were white. I could feel the heat inside. It pulsed. It beat. Like a heart. Like a lung. It was warm against my ribs.

"Put it down," said a voice.

I stopped. The air was cold. It bit my face. I looked up. A figure stood in the mist. He was tall. He wore a coat. The coat was dark. It was long. It hung to his knees.

"Who are you?" I asked. My voice was rough. It was dry.

"You know," he said. He did not move. He watched me. His eyes were dark. They were deep. They were still.

"I am Thomas," I said. I tightened my grip. "I am going to the sea."

"You are going to your death," he said.

"No," I said. "I am going to fix it."

He laughed. It was a dry sound. It was like leaves cracking. "Fix what, Thomas?"

"The rot," I said. "The sickness in the land. The gray that eats the green. The cold that eats the bone." I looked at him. "I know the cure. It is in this box. It is in the gold."

"There is no gold," he said.

"Yes there is," I said. "My father told me. He said, *Take the core. Take the heat. Bring it to the source.*"

"Your father is gone," he said.

"I know," I said. "But the duty remains."

The wind picked up. It whistled. It sang a low note. The trees around us were bare. They were black. They stood like sticks. They stood like bones.

"Come with me," he said.

"I cannot," I said. "I must walk. I must feel the ground. I must know the way."

"You are lost," he said.

"I am found," I said.

He stepped closer. The mist parted. I saw his face. It was old. It was kind. It was sad. He looked at the box. He looked at my hands.

"It is heavy," he said.

"It is light," I lied. It was crushing me. It was bending my spine. My back screamed. My arms shook. But I held it. I held it tight.

"Show me," he said.

I opened the box. The lid creaked. The air rushed out. It was hot. It was sweet. It smelled of honey. It smelled of burnt sugar. Inside, there was a stone. It was round. It was yellow. It glowed. It was soft. It was light. It was gold.

I took it out. It sat in my palm. It did not burn. It hummed. It vibrated. It felt like living flesh.

"Look," I said. "Isn't it beautiful? Isn't it perfect?"

The man looked at it. He did not reach for it. He did not smile.

"It is empty," he said.

"No," I said. "It is full. It is power. It is life."

"It is a memory," he said. "It is the memory of a time when things were different. But the time has passed. The memory is dead. You are carrying a corpse, Thomas."

I stared at him. I stared at the stone. The stone pulsed. *Thump. Thump.*

"It is alive," I insisted.

"It is a echo," he said. "And echoes fade."

I closed the box. I slammed it shut. The sound was sharp. It was final.

"Leave me," I said. "I do not need your talk. I need my work."

"You are not working," he said. "You are wandering."

"I am seeking justice," I said. "The land is sick. People are dying. The crops are failing. The water is brown. I will bring the heat. I will bring the light. I will make it right. I will make it just."

"Justice," he repeated. He said the word slowly. He savored it. "You think justice is a thing you can carry? You think it is a stone you can plant?"

"Yes," I said.

"No," he said. "Justice is a state of being. It is the absence of want. It is the presence of peace. You are not bringing peace. You are bringing fire."

I turned away. I walked on. The mud was deeper. It was thicker. It pulled at my feet. I stumbled. I fell. My face hit the dirt. The dirt was cold. It was wet. It was gritty.

I got up. I brushed the dirt from my coat. I checked the box. It was still there. It was still warm.

I walked for hours. The sun did not rise. The sky was gray. It was heavy. It pressed down on me. I felt small. I felt weak. But I did not stop. I could not stop. If I stopped, the cold would take me. If I stopped, the sickness would win.

I saw a house. It was far away. It was small. It was dark. It was abandoned. The roof was sagging. The windows were broken. The glass was shattered.

I walked toward it. My legs were numb. My mind was foggy. I was tired. I was so tired.

I reached the door. It was loose. It creaked as I pushed it. I stepped inside. The air was stale. It was thick. It smelled of dust. It smelled of decay.

There was a table. It was wood. It was old. It was cracked. On the table, there was a chair. The chair was empty.

I sat down. I put the box on the table. I opened it. The stone glowed. It filled the room. The light was yellow. It was warm. It was beautiful.

I looked at the stone. I looked at my hands. My hands were shaking. My hands were dirty. My hands were old.

I thought of my father. He was strong. He was tall. He had hands like hammers. He had a voice like a bell. He used to tell me stories. He used to tell me about the old days. He used to tell me about the gold.

*The gold will save us,* he said. *The gold will bring the sun back.*

But the sun did not come back. The days got shorter. The nights got colder. The green turned brown. The brown turned black. And the people died.

I closed my eyes. I rested my head on the table. I let the warmth of the stone wash over me. It was soothing. It was calm. It was like a lullaby.

"Thomas," said the voice.

I opened my eyes. The man was there. He was standing in the corner. He was in the shadow. He was still. He was watching me.

"How did you get in?" I asked.

"I was always here," he said.

I looked at the stone. I looked at the man.

"Are you real?" I asked.

"I am the witness," he said. "I am the one who watches. I am the one who remembers."

"Remember what?" I asked.

"Everything," he said. "The joy. The sorrow. The hope. The despair. The love. The loss."

I looked at the stone. I picked it up. It was warm. It was heavy.

"I am going to fix it," I said. "I am going to put it in the ground. I am going to plant it. And the sun will come back. And the world will be saved."

"The world is not broken, Thomas," he said. "The world is changing. And you are trying to stop it. You are trying to hold on to the past. But the past is gone. It is dead. You are carrying a ghost."

"I am carrying a cure," I said.

"You are carrying a lie," he said.

I threw the stone at him. It flew through the air. It hit him in the chest. It did not break. It did not shatter. It bounced off. It rolled to the floor. It rolled away.

I ran after it. I grabbed it. I held it. I squeezed it. I squeezed it hard.

"Let go," said the voice.

"No," I said.

"Let go," it said.

I screamed. I screamed until my throat bled. I screamed until my voice broke. I screamed into the dark. I screamed into the cold.

And then I let go.

I let go of the stone. I let go of the box. I let go of the duty. I let go of the hope. I let go of the fear.

I fell to the floor. I lay there. I looked at the ceiling. The ceiling was dark. The ceiling was far away.

The stone was on the floor. It was glowing. It was bright. It was beautiful. But it was alone. It was empty.

I watched it. I watched the light fade. I watched the yellow turn to orange. I watched the orange turn to red. I watched the red turn to black.

The light died. The stone went cold. It went still. It was just a stone. It was just rock. It was just dust.

I closed my eyes. I breathed in. I breathed out. The air was cold. The air was clean. It smelled of rain. It smelled of earth.

I stood up. My legs were weak. My body was heavy. But I was free. I was empty. I was light.

I walked to the door. I opened it. I stepped outside.

The rain had started. It was soft. It was gentle. It fell on my face. It fell on my hands. It washed the dirt from my skin. It washed the blood from my lips.

I looked at the sky. The sky was gray. But it was not dark. It was light. It was soft. It was quiet.

I did not walk to the sea. I did not walk to the source. I turned around. I walked back. I walked back into the mist. I walked back into the dark.

I walked home.

I walked to the place where the grass was dead. I walked to the place where the water was brown. I walked to the place where the people were gone.

I knelt down. I dug in the dirt. I dug with my hands. I dug until my fingers bled. I dug until my nails broke.

I buried the stone. I buried the box. I buried the gold. I buried the lie.

I patted the dirt. I smoothed it down. I made it flat. I made it still.

I stood up. I looked at the grave. It was small. It was round. It was dark.

I did not feel happy. I did not feel sad. I did not feel anything.

I just felt the rain. I felt the cold. I felt the life in the earth.

I walked away. I walked into the trees. I walked into the mist. I walked until I was gone.

The land was sick. The land was cold. But the rain was falling. And the rain was clean. And the rain was kind.

It would take time. It would take years. It would take generations. But the green would come back. The brown would fade. The black would lift.

It would take time.

I let it take time.