The mud is cold. It is a thick, black slurry that sucks at your boots with a wet, heavy pull. You feel it in your teeth. You feel it in the marrow of your bones. You are standing in the courtyard of the old castle. The stone walls are high. They are wet. They are slick with rain. You are not alone. There are others. They are moving. They are swinging.

Your name is Thomas. You do not say it. You do not need to. The armor knows it. The armor is part of you. It is iron. It is cold. It is heavy. You have worn it for a hundred years. Or maybe it is a day. Time is a loop here. Time is a circle. You are the guard. You are the key. You are the door.

A sword hits your shield. The impact rings out. It is a clear, bright sound. It cuts through the noise of the rain. It cuts through the noise of the shouting. You feel the vibration in your chest. You do not flinch. You do not step back. You hold your ground. This is the rule. The rule is the only thing that is real.

"Move!" someone shouts.

The voice is rough. It is angry. It is human. You do not answer. You cannot answer. Your mouth is behind a helm. Your face is behind steel. You are a thing. You are a function. You are the wall.

Another blow. This one is harder. It sends a shudder down your arm. Your shoulder aches. The ache is familiar. It is an old friend. It is a pain you have known so long it has become part of your identity. You know every dent in this armor. You know every scratch on this shield. You are one with it. It is your skin. It is your bone. It is your life.

You look up. The sky is gray. It is a flat, empty gray. There is no sun. There is no hope. There is only the stone. The stone is worn. The stone is smooth. The stone has seen too much. It has absorbed the blood of a thousand men. It has drunk the tears of a thousand women. It is indifferent. It is eternal.

You are not eternal. You are tired. You are so tired.

The battle continues. It is a blur. It is a dance. Swords flash. Shields clash. Men fall. They do not get up. They lie in the mud. They become part of the mud. You do not look at them. You cannot look at them. If you look, you will see yourself. If you see yourself, you will break.

There is a figure in the crowd. It is small. It is pale. It is holding a lantern. The lantern is made of gold. It is glowing. It is warm. It is the only warm thing in the world.

You know that light. You have seen it before. You have seen it in a dream. You have seen it in a memory. It is the light of the beginning. It is the light of the end. It is the light of the middle.

The figure moves toward you. It moves slowly. It moves with purpose. It is a woman. She is old. Her hair is white. Her eyes are dark. They are deep. They are full of something you cannot name.

She stops in front of you. She is close. You can smell her. She smells of dust. She smells of age. She smells of stone.

"Thomas," she says.

Her voice is soft. It is clear. It cuts through the noise. It cuts through the steel.

You do not move. You do not speak. You are the guard. You are the key.

"Let me in," she says.

You do not understand. You are the wall. There is no door. There is no opening. There is only the stone.

"I know," she says. "I know what you are. I know what you have done."

She reaches out. Her hand is thin. Her fingers are long. They tremble. She touches the gold lantern. The light flares. It is bright. It is blinding.

You feel the heat. It is not a burning heat. It is a melting heat. It is a dissolving heat. It touches the iron. It touches the steel. It touches your skin.

You feel it in your bones. You feel it in your blood. You feel it in your soul.

The armor begins to change. It is not rusting. It is not breaking. It is becoming light. It is becoming dust. It is becoming air.

You feel a panic. It is a sharp, cold panic. You do not want to lose it. You do not want to lose the weight. The weight is your anchor. The weight is your truth. Without it, you are nothing. Without it, you are free.

"No," you think. "I am the guard. I must hold."

The woman smiles. It is a sad smile. It is a kind smile.

"You have held long enough," she says.

The armor is gone.

You are standing in the mud. You are naked. You are cold. You are small.

You look at your hands. They are human. They are young. They are shaking.

You look at the castle. It is still there. The walls are still high. The stone is still wet. But the iron is gone. The steel is gone. The weight is gone.

The crowd stops. The swords stop. The shouting stops.

They look at you. They see a man. They see a boy. They see a soul.

One of them raises his sword. It is a young man. His face is pale. His eyes are wide.

"Who are you?" he asks.

You open your mouth. Your voice is raspy. It is weak.

"I was the door," you say.

The young man lowers his sword. He looks confused. He looks afraid.

"Let me in," you say. "I am tired."

The young man steps back. He steps away. He turns to the others. They do not attack. They do not advance. They stand still. They watch.

The woman is gone. The lantern is gone. The light is gone.

You are alone.

You are in the courtyard. You are in the mud. You are in the rain.

You walk. You walk to the gate. The gate is open. It has always been open. You never saw it. You were too busy being the wall.

You step through.

The air is different. It is sweet. It is clean. It smells of grass. It smells of earth. It smells of life.

You walk. You do not know where you are going. You do not know who you are. You do not know what time it is.

You walk.

You find a bench. It is stone. It is old. It is worn. You sit.

You look at your hands. They are still shaking. They are still young.

You look at the sky. It is blue. It is clear. There is no gray. There is no stone.

You breathe.

You breathe in. You breathe out.

You are alive.

You are free.

You are lost.

The pain is still there. It is in your chest. It is in your heart. It is a hollow space. It is an empty room.

You try to fill it. You try to remember.

You remember the weight. You remember the cold. You remember the iron.

You remember the woman. You remember the light.

You remember the name.

Thomas.

It is not a name anymore. It is a ghost. It is a shadow.

You are no one.

You are everything.

The sun sets. The light fades. The shadows grow.

You stand up. You walk.

You walk into the dark.

You do not know if you will stop. You do not know if you will remember.

You do not know if you are real.

You walk.

The mud is dry. The stone is cold. The air is still.

You are the wind. You are the dust. You are the memory.

You are the loop.

You are the escape.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

You walk.

You walk.

You walk.

The castle is behind you. It is a silhouette. It is a ghost. It is a memory.

You do not look back.

You cannot look back.

If you look back, you will see the iron. If you see the iron, you will want to wear it. If you want to wear it, you will be the wall again.

You must not look.

You must move.

You must live.

You are alive.

It is hard. It is painful. It is difficult.

But it is yours.

You are yours.

You are free.

The night is deep. The stars are bright.

You walk.

You walk.

You walk.

The end is not a place. The end is a feeling. It is a release. It is a breath.

You breathe.

You are here.

You are now.

You are Thomas.

You are no one.

You are the man who walked out of the stone.

You are the man who let go.

You are the man who was free.

The story is over.

The life begins.

You walk.

You walk.

You walk.