The rain falls on the moor. It does not stop. You walk. Your boots are heavy. The mud is thick. It pulls at your heels. You do not look down. You look ahead. The fog is white. It eats the horizon. You are a scholar. You know this. You know the dust of the library. You know the smell of old paper. You know the silence of the study. But here, there is only wind. And cold.

You carry a box. It is small. It is wood. It is stained with blood. You do not look at it. You hold it tight against your chest. It is warm. It is alive. You know what is inside. You do not name it. Names are heavy. Names break things. You just hold it. You walk.

The war is over. They say so. The letters say so. The telegrams say so. But the ground still shakes. The air still tastes of iron. You walked through the fire. You walked through the scream. You did not run. You are a scholar. You observe. You record. But you did not record this. You carried this.

You reach the edge of the cliff. The sea is black. The waves are high. They crash against the rocks. They roar. You stop. You breathe. The air is sharp. It cuts your lungs. You open the box.

There is a bird. It is small. It is grey. Its wings are broken. One eye is closed. The other is open. It looks at you. It does not sing. It does not move. It just looks. You know it. You have seen it before. In the trench. In the mud. You saved it. You pulled it from the debris. You wrapped it in your scarf. You kept it alive. You are a scholar. You preserve things. You think this is virtue. You think this is love.

You look at the bird. You think of Eleanor. She is in London. She is waiting. She does not know. She does not need to know. She waits for your letter. She waits for your return. She waits for the end of the story. But the story is not over. The story is the bird. The story is the box. The story is the weight in your hands.

You speak to the bird. Your voice is rough. It is like gravel.

"Stay," you say.

The bird blinks. It looks at the sea. It looks at the cliff. It looks at you. It does not understand words. It understands pain. It understands fear. It understands the cold. You are cold. It is cold. You are both broken. You are the same.

You close the box. You lock it. The latch clicks. The sound is loud. It echoes. You turn away from the cliff. You turn to the path. You must go. You must go home. You must go to Eleanor. You must sit at the table. You must eat. You must talk. You must pretend.

But you cannot pretend. The box is heavy. It pulls you down. It pulls you into the earth. You walk faster. Your legs are tired. Your back is sore. The rain is still falling. It soaks your coat. It soaks your hair. It soaks your eyes. You blink. The world is blurred.

You see a man. He is far away. He is standing in the field. He is small. He is still. You stop. You watch him. He does not move. He is a ghost. He is a memory. He is the boy who died in the trench. He is the boy you did not save. You look at him. He looks at you. His face is blank. His eyes are empty.

You feel a pain. It is in your chest. It is sharp. It is hot. You clutch your side. You stumble. You fall to your knees. The mud is cold. It seeps into your knees. You gasp. You breathe. The man is gone. The field is empty. The wind is howling.

You stand up. You are alone. You are always alone. You walk. You do not look back. You do not look down. You only look forward. The path is long. The path is dark. The rain is still falling.

You reach the village. It is small. It is quiet. The houses are low. The roofs are slate. The windows are dark. There is no light. There is no sound. You walk past the church. You walk past the school. You walk past the pub. The doors are closed. The shutters are down.

You reach your house. It is white. It is old. The gate is rusted. The garden is wild. The weeds are high. The roses are dead. You open the gate. It creaks. The sound is sharp. It cuts the air.

You walk up the steps. The stone is wet. You slip. You catch the rail. You climb. You reach the door. You unlock it. The key is cold. It burns your hand. You open the door. You step inside.

The house is dark. The air is still. It smells of dust. It smells of wood. It smells of time. You do not turn on the lights. You do not call out. You walk into the room. The room is small. The table is wood. The chairs are old. The table is set.

There is a place for you. There is a place for Eleanor. The plates are white. The cups are clean. The candles are lit. The flame is steady. It does not flicker. It does not dance. It is still.

You sit. You do not speak. You look at the table. You look at the plate. You look at the fork. You pick up the fork. You do not eat. You hold it. You feel the metal. It is cold. It is smooth.

You think of the bird. You think of the box. The box is in your hand. You have not put it down. You have not let go. You hold it tight. You hold it against your leg. It is heavy. It is warm.

You speak. Your voice is low. It is soft.

"Eleanor," you say.

There is no answer. There is no sound. The room is empty. You are alone. You are always alone.

You look at the empty chair. You look at the plate. You look at the candle. The flame is high. The flame is bright. It is beautiful. It is cruel.

You open the box. You take out the bird. You place it on the table. You place it on the plate. You look at it. It is still. It is grey. It is small. It is dead. It has been dead for a long time. You did not know. You thought it was alive. You thought it was waiting. You thought it was yours.

You look at the bird. You feel a tear. It falls. It lands on the wood. It is hot. It is wet. You do not wipe it. You let it fall. You let it drop.

You speak again. Your voice is broken.

"I am sorry," you say.

The bird does not move. The bird does not breathe. The bird is silent. The bird is gone.

You close the box. You put it in your pocket. You stand up. You leave the table. You leave the room. You walk into the hall. You walk into the yard. The rain is still falling. The dark is thick. The air is cold.

You walk to the fence. The fence is high. The grass is long. The wind is strong. You lean against the fence. You look up. The sky is black. The stars are hidden. The clouds are heavy. They are low. They are close.

You think of the war. You think of the blood. You think of the fire. You think of the mud. You think of the boy. You think of the bird. You think of Eleanor. You think of the table. You think of the silence.

You are a scholar. You know the truth. The truth is simple. The truth is small. The truth is the bird. The bird is the sacrifice. The sacrifice is the redemption. But the redemption is empty. The redemption is ash. The redemption is dust.

You do not care. You do not feel. You are numb. You are cold. You are still.

You walk to the gate. You open the gate. You step out. You walk into the rain. You walk into the dark. You walk into the night. You do not look back. You do not look down. You only look forward.

The rain falls. It washes the blood. It washes the mud. It washes the dust. It washes the name. You are no one. You are nothing. You are the wind. You are the rain. You are the stone.

You walk. You walk. You walk.

The path is long. The path is dark. The path is endless.

You are gone. You are free. You are lost.

The bird is gone. The box is gone. The table is empty. The candle is out. The house is silent. The rain is still falling. The rain will not stop. The rain will never stop.

It falls on the moor. It falls on the stone. It falls on the dead. It falls on the living. It falls on you. It washes you clean. It washes you away.

You are no one. You are nothing. You are free.