You dream of the hand.

It is a small hand. It is your hand. You hold it up in the dark. The fingers are pale. They are still. You look at the knuckles. They are swollen. The skin is tight. You feel the pulse. It is faint. It is slow. You wake. The room is cold. The light is gray. The clock ticks. It is a loud tick. It is a heavy tick. You are in your study. You are alone.

You look at the hand again. You are sure. It is not your hand. It is a model. It is clay. It is unfinished. You set it on the desk. The desk is wood. The wood is old. The wood is dark. You touch the clay. It is cold. It is hard. It is dry. You do not like it. You do not trust it.

The door opens. It is a loud sound. It is a sharp sound.

"Good morning," says a voice.

It is a high voice. It is a clear voice. It is a young voice.

You do not turn. You look at the clay hand.

"Good morning," you say.

Your voice is low. Your voice is rough. You have not spoken in a long time. You are a scholar. You study history. You study the past. The past is dead. The past is silent. You love the silence. You love the stillness.

The young man walks in. He is tall. He is thin. He is pale. He is like you. He is not you. He is Edward. He is your student. He is your friend. He is your mirror.

He sees the hand. He stops. He looks at it.

"What is that?" he asks.

"It is a hand," you say.

"It is not a hand," he says. "It is a lie."

You look at him. You do not like his tone. It is sharp. It is cold. It is like ice.

"It is art," you say.

"It is trash," he says. "You are done. You are finished. You are a ghost."

You feel a pain. It is in your chest. It is in your throat. It is in your mind. You are not a ghost. You are a man. You are a scholar. You have a life. You have a purpose. You have a cause.

"What do you mean?" you ask.

"I mean," he says. "You are hiding. You are afraid. You are weak. You are old."

The words are stones. They fall on you. They break you. You do not argue. You do not fight. You are tired. You are so tired.

"Sit down," you say.

He does not sit. He stands. He is strong. He is full of life. He is full of fire. You are full of ash.

"I will go," he says. "I will leave. I will take the work. I will take the name. I will take the place."

"No," you say.

"Yes," he says. "It is time. The old must die. The new must live. It is justice."

You hear the word. Justice. It is a heavy word. It is a cold word. It is a sharp word. It cuts you. You do not understand. You are not guilty. You are not wrong. You are just here. You are just living.

"Go," you say.

He turns. He walks to the door. He stops. He looks back. His eyes are dark. His eyes are deep. His eyes are empty.

"Goodbye," he says.

"Goodbye," you say.

The door closes. It is a soft sound. It is a final sound. You are alone. The room is quiet. The clock ticks. It is a loud tick. It is a heavy tick.

You look at the hand. The clay hand. It is on the desk. It is still. It is cold. It is hard. You reach out. You touch it. You feel the shape. You feel the curve. You feel the life. It is not life. It is memory. It is the memory of your own hand. It is the memory of your own life.

You cry. It is a silent cry. It is a deep cry. It is a real cry. You feel the sorrow. It is a great sorrow. It is a true sorrow. It is not your sorrow. It is a sorrow for all. It is a sorrow for time. It is a sorrow for change.

You stand up. Your legs are weak. Your back is bent. You are old. You are tired. You are broken.

You walk to the window. The window is open. The wind blows. It is cold. It is wet. It is gray. You look out. The street is empty. The cars are gone. The people are gone. The world is still. The world is quiet. The world is waiting.

You see a man. He is on the street. He is walking. He is fast. He is young. He is Edward. He is running. He is running away. He is running from you. He is running from the past. He is running toward the future.

You watch him. You do not call out. You do not stop him. You let him go. You let him be. You let him live.

You turn away. You go back to the desk. You pick up the clay hand. You hold it. You hold it tight. You feel the weight. You feel the cold. You feel the truth.

It is not a hand. It is a key. It is a key to the door. It is a key to the self. It is a key to the end.

You set it down. You open the drawer. You take out a book. It is a thick book. It is a heavy book. It is a red book. It is a special book. It is a book of names. It is a book of dates. It is a book of sins.

You look at the names. You see your name. You see his name. You see other names. You see many names. You see the names of the dead. You see the names of the lost. You see the names of the forgotten.

You close the book. You put it away. You do not need it. You do not need the past. You do not need the guilt. You do not need the fear.

You look at the hand again. You smile. It is a small smile. It is a sad smile. It is a true smile.

You take the hand. You walk to the window. You look at the street. The street is empty. The wind is strong. The rain is falling. The rain is cold. The rain is wet. The rain is clean.

You open the window. You throw the hand. You throw it far. You throw it high. You throw it out. You throw it away.

You watch it fall. It falls fast. It falls down. It hits the ground. It makes a sound. It is a small sound. It is a soft sound. It is a final sound.

You close the window. You are alone. You are free. You are light. You are empty. You are full.

You sit down. You breathe. You breathe deep. You breathe slow. You breathe calm. You breathe peace.

The clock ticks. It is a soft tick. It is a gentle tick. It is a kind tick. It is a friend tick.

You wait. You wait for the day. You wait for the light. You wait for the end. You wait for the beginning.

You do not know what comes next. You do not care. You do not fear. You do not hope. You are here. You are now. You are true.

The light comes. It is a soft light. It is a warm light. It is a golden light. It is a holy light. It fills the room. It fills your eyes. It fills your heart.

You see the hand. It is gone. It is dust. It is earth. It is nothing. It is everything.

You smile. You close your eyes. You sleep. You dream. You dream of nothing. You dream of silence. You dream of peace.

You are at rest. You are at home. You are at the end. You are at the start.

The story is done. The life is done. The pain is done. The joy is done. The love is done. The hate is done. The time is done.

You are done.

You are free.

You are gone.