You wake up holding a root.

It is not a vegetable. It is not a tool. It is a letter. It is a contract. It is a chain.

The stem is pale and thick, like a finger bone. The leaves are black ink, dry and brittle. You hold it in your left hand. Your right hand is empty. You are in a city that does not have a name on the map. The buildings are made of glass and silence. The people are moving fast. They are not looking at you. They are looking through you.

You put the root in your pocket.

You walk.

The air tastes like copper.

You enter a shop. It sells nothing. It is a room with a desk. A man sits behind the desk. He is old. His face is a map of wrinkles. He does not look up.

"What is it?" you ask.

The man does not answer. He shuffles papers. The paper sounds like dry leaves.

"It is the root," you say. "I found it. In my bed. In my dream. I woke up holding it. It is here now."

The man stops shuffling. He looks at you. His eyes are clear. They are the color of the river.

"You have the mark," he says. His voice is soft. It is like dust falling on a table.

"I do not know what that means."

"It means you are free. It means you are not of here. It means you are a ghost in the machine."

"I am not a ghost. I am a man. I was a teacher. I taught history. I lived in Boston. I had a wife. I had a daughter. They are gone now. I am here."

"The root is the price," the man says.

"What price?"

"The price of being unseen. The price of being free. You are free because you are no one. You are free because you are a letter that was never sent. You are free because you are a root that has no soil."

You pull the root out of your pocket. You show it to him. The black leaves curl. The pale stem pulses.

"I want to send it," you say. "I want to send it back. I want to go back to Boston. I want to see my daughter. I want to be a man again. I want to have a name."

The man smiles. It is a sad smile. It is a smile that has seen too much.

"You cannot go back," he says. "The root is not a key. The root is a lock. You are locked in here. You are locked in the free. You are locked in the nothing."

"Then why did I give it to me?"

"Because you wanted to be free. Because you were tired of being seen. Because you were tired of the weight of the name. Because you were tired of the bias. Because you were tired of being the other."

"I was not tired," you say. "I was afraid. I was afraid of the look in their eyes. I was afraid of the silence when I spoke. I was afraid of the door that would not open. I wanted to disappear. I thought that if I disappeared, I would be safe. I thought that if I disappeared, I would be free."

"And you are free," the man says. "You are perfectly free. You are free to be no one. You are free to be nothing. You are free to be the root."

You look at the root. You hold it tighter. The stem is warm. It feels like a heartbeat.

"What happens now?" you ask.

"Now you walk," the man says. "You walk until you drop. You walk until the root takes you. You walk until you are part of the city. You walk until you are part of the silence."

You leave the shop.

You walk.

The city is loud. The noise is a physical thing. It pushes against your chest. It pushes against your ears. It pushes against your skin.

You see a woman. She is sitting on a bench. She is reading a book. She is wearing a blue coat. She looks like your wife. She looks like Margaret.

You stop.

You stand in front of her.

"Margaret?" you say.

She looks up. She does not know you. She does not know your name. She looks at your face. She looks at your hand. She sees the root.

She drops the book.

"What are you?" she asks. Her voice is shaky.

"I am... I am here," you say. "I am the one who is free."

She stands up. She steps back. Her eyes are wide. There is fear in them. There is disgust in them.

"Go away," she says. "Go away. You are not real. You are a thing. You are a root."

"I am not a root," you say. "I am a man. I loved you. I loved our daughter. I was a man."

"You are a monster," she says. "You are a mistake. You are a stain on the world. You are the bias made flesh. You are the other made solid. Go away."

You look at the root. You look at her. You understand.

You are not a man. You are the consequence. You are the result of the fear. You are the shadow of the bias. You are the thing that was cast out. You are the free that is not free.

You turn away.

You walk.

You do not look back.

You walk until the sun goes down. The city turns gray. The lights come on. The lights are yellow. The lights are sick.

You enter a park. The park is empty. The grass is dead. The trees are bare.

You sit on a bench.

You pull out the root.

You look at it.

It is growing.

The black leaves are spreading. They are reaching out. They are touching your fingers. They are wrapping around your hand.

You try to pull your hand away.

You cannot.

The root is part of you.

You are part of the root.

The pain is sharp. It is bright. It is clear.

You are not in pain. You are in peace.

You are free.

You are truly free.

You are free from the name. You are free from the face. You are free from the history. You are free from the bias. You are free from the self.

You are the root.

The root is the community. The root is the collective. The root is the devotion that does not end. The root is the love that is not for one person. The root is the love that is for the void.

You close your eyes.

You feel the city.

You feel the people.

They are all roots.

They are all holding something.

They are all holding the nothing.

They are all free.

They are all defeated.

They are all accepted.

You open your eyes.

The park is empty.

The root is gone.

Your hand is empty.

Your hand is clean.

You stand up.

You walk.

You walk into the city.

You walk into the crowd.

You are no one.

You are everyone.

You are free.

The freedom is heavy.

The freedom is light.

The freedom is the weight of the air.

The freedom is the light of the stars.

You are the faded root.

You are the mark.

You are the letter.

You are the silence.

You are the free.

You are the cost.

You are the price.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

You are here.

You are nowhere.

You are free.