The seal was red.

It sat on the desk.

It was a wax impression.

The shape was a serpent.

It ate its tail.

I was twelve.

I wore a grey tunic.

The room was cold.

Stone walls.

High ceilings.

A single window.

Rain hit the glass.

I looked at the seal.

My name was Thomas.

I was the King’s scribe.

No.

I was the boy who cleaned the ink.

I watched the Lord.

Lord Ashworth.

He held the quill.

His hand was steady.

He signed the decree.

The wax hardened.

The serpent closed.

I felt a pull.

It was in my chest.

A low hum.

Like a bell.

Like a stone.

I wanted the seal.

Not to break it.

To hold it.

To know its weight.

The Lord looked at me.

His eyes were blue.

Cold.

Clear.

He smiled.

It was thin.

He did not speak.

He pushed the paper.

It slid across the wood.

It stopped at my hand.

I took it.

The wax was warm.

It glowed.

I looked up.

The Lord was gone.

The door was open.

The rain was loud.

I was alone.

The seal pulsed.

It beat like a heart.

I ran.

I ran to the chapel.

The candles were lit.

The priest was there.

Father Miller.

He was old.

His face was soft.

He saw me.

He saw the seal.

He did not ask.

He crossed himself.

He looked at the floor.

He looked at the wall.

He looked at me.

His eyes were wet.

He was afraid.

He whispered.

I could not hear.

I held the seal tight.

It burned.

It cooled.

It became hard.

I walked out.

The castle was empty.

The servants slept.

The guards slept.

The King slept.

I went to the tower.

The stairs were steep.

My legs hurt.

My breath was short.

I climbed.

One step.

Two steps.

Three steps.

The wind howled.

It sounded like a voice.

It sounded like a name.

My name.

I reached the top.

The roof was open.

The sky was black.

No stars.

Only clouds.

They moved fast.

They swirled.

They formed a shape.

A face.

It was my father.

He had died.

He was young then.

He looked at me.

His mouth moved.

No sound.

I held the seal up.

The light from the wax.

It hit the clouds.

The face changed.

It became angry.

It became sad.

It became me.

I realized it.

The seal was not a gift.

It was a cage.

I was the key.

I was the lock.

The Lord knew.

The priest knew.

I did not.

I was the fool.

I was the tool.

I threw the seal.

I threw it into the dark.

It fell.

It did not break.

It landed on the stone.

It rolled.

It stopped.

The red wax.

The serpent.

It stared at me.

I walked away.

I went back to the hall.

The fire was low.

Ashes on the floor.

I sat down.

I waited.

The door opened.

Lord Ashworth.

He walked in.

He did not look at me.

He looked at the seal.

It was on the table.

It was waiting.

He picked it up.

He smiled.

He knew I had thrown it.

He knew I had tried to free myself.

He knew it was useless.

The seal was part of me.

I was part of it.

He put it in his pocket.

He left.

The door closed.

The fire popped.

A spark flew.

It landed on my tunic.

It burned.

I did not feel it.

I sat there.

The pain came later.

It was a slow ache.

It was in my bones.

It was in my blood.

I understood then.

The seal was not evil.

The seal was not good.

It was power.

Power is neutral.

Power is heavy.

Power is cold.

I had wanted to break it.

I had wanted to be free.

But freedom is a lie.

We are bound.

We are tied.

We are the seal.

And the hand that holds it.

And the stone that receives it.

I closed my eyes.

The darkness was thick.

I saw my mother.

She was singing.

A simple song.

A lullaby.

She held a bowl.

The bowl was cracked.

She poured water.

The water spilled.

It ran across the floor.

It reached my feet.

It was cold.

It was clean.

I woke up.

The room was bright.

The sun was up.

The rain had stopped.

The air was clear.

I stood up.

My legs were weak.

I went to the window.

The garden was green.

The grass was wet.

A bird sang.

It was small.

It was brown.

It jumped.

It flew.

It landed on a branch.

It looked at me.

Its eye was black.

Its eye was round.

It blinked.

I looked at my hand.

There was no seal.

There was no wax.

There was no burn.

There was only skin.

Pale.

Soft.

Human.

I touched my face.

I was real.

I was here.

But the weight remained.

It was in my chest.

It was a stone.

I carried it.

I would always carry it.

The Lord was gone.

The castle was quiet.

The power had moved.

It moved to me.

I did not want it.

I could not give it back.

I was the vessel.

I was the witness.

I was the end.

I walked to the door.

I opened it.

The world was wide.

The world was loud.

The world was indifferent.

I stepped out.

The grass was cold.

The air was sharp.

I breathed.

I breathed deep.

I breathed for myself.

I breathed for the seal.

I breathed for the Lord.

I breathed for the serpent.

The cycle continues.

The seal is broken.

The seal is made.

The boy is gone.

The man remains.

The stone is cold.

The hand is warm.

The truth is simple.

We are all seals.

We are all wax.

We are all pressed.

We are all held.

We are all released.

We are all remembered.

We are all forgotten.

The bird flew away.

The branch shook.

The leaves fell.

The ground was bare.

The rain would come.

The sun would rise.

The night would fall.

The cycle continues.

I walked on.

I did not look back.

There was nothing to see.

There was nothing to hide.

There was only the road.

And the weight.

And the breath.

And the end.

The story is over.

The seal is gone.

The boy is dead.

The man is free.

Or is he?

The stone is still there.

In the pocket.

In the heart.

In the mind.

It is always there.

It is always waiting.

It is always watching.

It is always red.

It is always cold.

It is always true.

I am Thomas.

I am the scribe.

I am the clean.

I am the ink.

I am the page.

I am the word.

I am the silence.

I am the space.

I am the seal.

I am the break.

I am the mend.

I am the end.

I am the start.

The loop closes.

The serpent bites.

The tail is gone.

The head remains.

The body is empty.

The soul is full.

The truth is clear.

The lie is deep.

The good is bad.

The bad is good.

The line is blurred.

The line is broken.

The line is gone.

We are the line.

We are the blur.

We are the break.

We are the end.

The story ends.

The seal is set.

The wax is hard.

The color is red.

The shape is round.

The mark is deep.

The hand is still.

The heart is still.

The breath is still.

The world is still.

The night is deep.

The stars are out.

The moon is full.

The light is pale.

The shadow is long.

The fear is gone.

The hope is gone.

The truth is here.

The truth is cold.

The truth is hard.

The truth is real.

I accept it.

I carry it.

I live it.

I die it.

The story is done.

The seal is kept.

The boy is lost.

The man is found.

The end is near.

The end is here.

The end is now.

The end is always.

The seal is red.

It sits on the desk.

It is a wax impression.

The shape is a serpent.

It eats its tail.

I am twelve.

I wear a grey tunic.

The room is cold.

Stone walls.

High ceilings.

A single window.

Rain hits the glass.

I look at the seal.

My name is Thomas.

I am the King’s scribe.

No.

I am the boy who cleans the ink.

I watch the Lord.

Lord Ashworth.

He holds the quill.

His hand is steady.

He signs the decree.

The wax hardens.

The serpent closes.

I feel a pull.

It is in my chest.

A low hum.

Like a bell.

Like a stone.

I want the seal.

Not to break it.

To hold it.

To know its weight.

The Lord looks at me.

His eyes are blue.

Cold.

Clear.

He smiles.

It is thin.

He does not speak.

He pushes the paper.

It slides across the wood.

It stops at my hand.

I take it.

The wax is warm.

It glows.

I look up.

The Lord is gone.

The door is open.

The rain is loud.

I am alone.

The seal pulses.

It beats like a heart.

I run.

I run to the chapel.

The candles are lit.

The priest is there.

Father Miller.

He is old.

His face is soft.

He sees me.

He sees the seal.

He does not ask.

He crosses himself.

He looks at the floor.

He looks at the wall.

He looks at me.

His eyes are wet.

He is afraid.

He whispers.

I cannot hear.

I hold the seal tight.

It burns.

It cools.

It becomes hard.

I walk out.

The castle is empty.

The servants sleep.

The guards sleep.

The King sleeps.

I go to the tower.

The stairs are steep.

My legs hurt.

My breath is short.

I climb.

One step.

Two steps.

Three steps.

The wind howls.

It sounds like a voice.

It sounds like a name.

My name.

I reach the top.

The roof is open.

The sky is black.

No stars.

Only clouds.

They move fast.

They swirl.

They form a shape.

A face.

It is my father.

He has died.

He is young then.

He looks at me.

His mouth moves.

No sound.

I hold the seal up.

The light from the wax.

It hits the clouds.

The face changes.

It becomes angry.

It becomes sad.

It becomes me.

I realize it.

The seal is not a gift.

It is a cage.

I am the key.

I am the lock.

The Lord knew.

The priest knew.

I did not.

I was the fool.

I was the tool.

I throw the seal.

I throw it into the dark.

It falls.

It does not break.

It lands on the stone.

It rolls.

It stops.

The red wax.

The serpent.

It stares at me.

I walk away.

I go back to the hall.

The fire is low.

Ashes on the floor.

I sit down.

I wait.

The door opens.

Lord Ashworth.

He walks in.

He does not look at me.

He looks at the seal.

It is on the table.

It is waiting.

He picks it up.

He smiles.

He knew I had thrown it.

He knew I had tried to free myself.

He knew it was useless.

The seal was part of me.

I was part of it.

He puts it in his pocket.

He leaves.

The door closes.

The fire pops.

A spark flies.

It lands on my tunic.

It burns.

I do not feel it.

I sit there.

The pain comes later.

It is a slow ache.

It is in my bones.

It is in my blood.

I understand then.

The seal is not evil.

The seal is not good.

It is power.

Power is neutral.

Power is heavy.

Power is cold.

I had wanted to break it.

I had wanted to be free.

But freedom is a lie.

We are bound.

We are tied.

We are the seal.

And the hand that holds it.

And the stone that receives it.

I close my eyes.

The darkness is thick.

I see my mother.

She is singing.

A simple song.

A lullaby.

She holds a bowl.

The bowl is cracked.

She pours water.

The water spills.

It runs across the floor.

It reaches my feet.

It is cold.

It is clean.

I wake up.

The room is bright.

The sun is up.

The rain has stopped.

The air is clear.

I stand up.

My legs are weak.

I go to the window.

The garden is green.

The grass is wet.

A bird sings.

It is small.

It is brown.

It jumps.

It flies.

It lands on a branch.

It looks at me.

Its eye is black.

Its eye is round.

It blinks.

I look at my hand.

There is no seal.

There is no wax.

There is no burn.

There is only skin.

Pale.

Soft.

Human.

I touch my face.

I am real.

I am here.

But the weight remains.

It is in my chest.

It is a stone.

I carry it.

I will always carry it.

The Lord is gone.

The castle is quiet.

The power has moved.

It moved to me.

I did not want it.

I could not give it back.

I was the vessel.

I was the witness.

I was the end.

I walked to the door.

I opened it.

The world was wide.

The world was loud.

The world was indifferent.

I stepped out.

The grass was cold.

The air was sharp.

I breathed.

I breathed deep.

I breathed for myself.

I breathed for the seal.

I breathed for the Lord.

I breathed for the serpent.

The cycle continues.

The seal is broken.

The seal is made.

The boy is gone.

The man remains.

The stone is cold.

The hand is warm.

The truth is simple.

We are all seals.

We are all wax.

We are all pressed.

We are all held.

We are all released.

We are all remembered.

We are all forgotten.

The bird flew away.

The branch shook.

The leaves fell.

The ground was bare.

The rain would come.

The sun would rise.

The night would fall.

The cycle continues.

I walked on.

I did not look back.

There was nothing to see.

There was nothing to hide.

There was only the road.

And the weight.

And the breath.

And the end.

The story is over.

The seal is gone.

The boy is dead.

The man is free.

Or is he?

The stone is still there.

In the pocket.

In the heart.

In the mind.

It is always there.

It is always waiting.

It is always watching.

It is always red.

It is always cold.

It is always true.

I am Thomas.

I am the scribe.

I am the clean.

I am the ink.

I am the page.

I am the word.

I am the silence.

I am the space.

I am the seal.

I am the break.

I am the mend.

I am the end.

I am the start.

The loop closes.

The serpent bites.

The tail is gone.

The head remains.

The body is empty.

The soul is full.

The truth is clear.

The lie is deep.

The good is bad.

The bad is good.

The line is blurred.

The line is broken.

The line is gone.

We are the line.

We are the blur.

We are the break.

We are the end.

The story ends.

The seal is set.

The wax is hard.

The color is red.

The shape is round.

The mark is deep.

The hand is still.

The heart is still.

The breath is still.

The world is still.

The night is deep.

The stars are out.

The moon is full.

The light is pale.

The shadow is long.

The fear is gone.

The hope is gone.

The truth is here.

The truth is cold.

The truth is hard.

The truth is real.

I accept it.

I carry it.

I live it.

I die it.

The story is done.

The seal is kept.

The boy is lost.

The man is found.

The end is near.

The end is here.

The end is now.

The end is always.