The hammer fell. It hit the bone. It cracked.

It was a small sound. A dry snap, like a twig under a boot. But it echoed in the throat. It echoed in the lungs. The woman did not scream. She held her breath. The hammer came down again.

Marta looked at the floor. The dust swirled in the beam of light. It was a thick, yellow light. It cut through the fog. The fog was cold. It bit her skin. It bit her eyes.

She saw the bone. It was white. It was broken. The pieces scattered. They rolled into the dark.

"Keep going," said the voice. It was a low voice. It was a wet voice. "Do not stop."

Marta lifted the hammer. Her arms shook. The weight was heavy. It was lead. It was stone. She swung. The air hissed. The sound was sharp.

The bone gave way. It crumbled. It turned to powder.

"Good," said the voice. "Now the wrist."

Marta looked at her own hands. They were red. The blood was warm. It ran down her wrists. It dripped onto the grass. The grass was wet. The grass was black.

She did not remember picking up the hammer. She did not remember walking here. The field was vast. The sky was low. The clouds were gray. They pressed down. They wanted to crush her.

She swung again.

The pain was sharp. It was bright. It was a white star in her head. She saw her mother’s face. Her mother was young. Her mother was smiling. She held a baby. The baby was quiet. The baby was dead.

Marta closed her eyes. She opened them. The hammer was in her hand. The bone was in the ground.

"Is it done?" she asked. Her voice was a whisper. It was a dry leaf. It crumbled in the wind.

"No," said the voice. "It is never done. You must break it all. You must break the self. Then the truth will come. Then the justice will come."

Marta looked at the field. The field was empty. There were no people. There were no houses. There was only the dirt. The dirt was black. The dirt was hungry.

She swung the hammer.

The sun rose. It was a pale disk. It was a coin. It hung in the sky. It did not shine. It only glared. The light was thin. It cut through the fog. It cut through the air.

Marta stood up. Her legs were stiff. Her muscles burned. The fire was in her bones. The fire was in her brain. She felt light. She felt hollow.

She walked. The grass tickled her ankles. The mud sucked at her feet. She did not care. She walked north. The north was cold. The north was hard.

She met a man. He was old. He wore a coat. The coat was gray. It was wet. He held a cane. The cane was wood. The wood was dark.

"Where are you going?" he asked. He did not look at her. He looked at the ground.

"To the end," said Marta. Her voice was flat. It was a stone. It had no curve.

"There is no end," said the man. "There is only the middle. There is only the pain. You are in the middle. You are in the pain."

Marta looked at him. She saw his eyes. They were small. They were dark. They were wells. They had no bottom.

"I am breaking it," she said.

"Breaking what?"

"Myself."

The man laughed. It was a dry sound. It was a cough. It was a rasp. "You cannot break yourself. You are the thing that breaks. You are the tool. You are the nail. You are the nail in the wood. You are the wood that splinters."

Marta looked at her hands. The blood was drying. It was brown. It was crusty. It cracked. It fell away.

"I must go on," she said.

"You must go on," said the man. He turned. He walked away. The cane tapped the ground. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound faded. The sound died.

Marta was alone. The fog was thick. It wrapped around her. It held her. It squeezed her. She felt small. She felt nothing.

She walked. The road was long. The road was straight. It cut through the fields. The fields were dead. The crops were black. The soil was dry. The soil was dust.

She saw a bird. It was a crow. It stood on a fence. The fence was wood. The wood was rotting. The crow looked at her. It blinked. It did not move.

"Go away," said Marta.

The crow did not move. It watched. It waited.

Marta walked past. The shadow of the crow fell on her. It was black. It was cold. It followed her.

She reached a hill. The hill was high. The hill was steep. She climbed. Her breath was short. Her heart was fast. It beat in her chest. It beat in her throat. It beat in her skull.

At the top, she saw the city. It was far. It was small. It was a speck. The smoke rose from it. The smoke was gray. The smoke was thick. It hid the sun.

She looked down. The road went down. The road went up. The road was a line. The line was thin. The line was broken.

She sat down. The grass was cold. The mud was wet. She looked at her hands. The hammer was gone. She did not know where it went. She did not know when it went.

She looked at her fingers. They were thin. They were pale. They were like roots. They were like bones.

She remembered the hammer. She remembered the sound. The snap. The crack. The dust.

She remembered the voice. "Break it all."

She remembered the bone. It was her bone. It was her own.

She looked at the city. The smoke was rising. The smoke was growing. It was a cloud. It was a storm. It was coming.

She stood up. Her legs were weak. Her knees buckled. She caught herself. She held on.

She walked down. The road was wet. The rain began. It was cold. It was hard. It hit her face. It hit her eyes. It stung.

She did not wipe it away. She let it run. The water mixed with the blood. The water mixed with the dirt. It was a river. It was a stream. It flowed down.

She walked. The rain got heavier. The wind got stronger. The trees bent. The trees screamed. The branches snapped. The leaves flew.

She felt the pain. It was in her back. It was in her ribs. It was in her soul. The soul was a thing. It was a weight. It was a stone.

She dropped the stone.

She felt light. She felt free.

The rain stopped. The sun came out. It was bright. It was hot. It burned her skin. It burned her eyes.

She reached the road. The road was wide. The road was paved. The stones were gray. The stones were hard.

People were there. They walked. They talked. They laughed. They did not see her. They did not care. They were blind. They were deaf. They were dumb.

Marta walked among them. She was one of them. She was no one. She was a ghost. She was a shadow.

She saw a man. He was young. He was strong. He was carrying a bag. The bag was heavy. He struggled. He grunted. He sweated.

Marta stopped. She looked at him. He looked at her. His eyes were wide. His eyes were afraid.

"Help me," he said. His voice was high. It was thin. It was a thread.

Marta looked at the bag. She looked at the man. She looked at her hands. Her hands were clean. Her hands were empty.

She reached out. She touched the bag. The bag was warm. The bag was alive. It pulsed. It beat.

The man flinched. He pulled away. "What are you?" he asked.

"I am here," said Marta.

"No. You are not. You are a thing. You are a shadow. You are the fog."

Marta looked at him. She saw the fear in his eyes. She saw the hate. She saw the truth.

"I am the justice," she said.

The man laughed. It was a cruel sound. It was a knife. It cut the air. "Justice is far. Justice is late. Justice is a lie. Go away. Go to the end. Go to the grave."

Marta did not move. She looked at him. She looked at the bag. She looked at the road.

The man walked away. He did not look back. His footsteps echoed. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Marta was alone. The sun was high. The light was harsh. The light was white. The light was blind.

She sat on the curb. The curb was stone. The stone was cold. The stone was hard.

She looked at her hands. The blood was gone. The dirt was gone. The cracks were gone. Her hands were smooth. Her hands were soft. Her hands were new.

She flexed her fingers. They moved. They worked. They were alive.

She looked at the city. The smoke was gone. The sky was blue. The sky was clear. The sky was empty.

She stood up. She walked. The road was long. The road was straight. She did not know where it went. She did not care.

She walked. The sun set. The stars came out. The stars were bright. The stars were cold. The stars were far.

She walked. The night was deep. The night was dark. The night was silent.

She walked. The dawn came. The sun rose. It was a pale disk. It was a coin. It hung in the sky.

She was still walking.

She was still here.

She was the bone. She was the hammer. She was the break.

She was the end.

She was the beginning.

The silence was loud. The silence was full. The silence was everything.

She stopped. She breathed. The air was sweet. The air was clean. The air was life.

She smiled. It was a small smile. It was a quiet smile. It was a true smile.

She walked on.