The rain hits the mud. It is a cold, gray slap against your boots. You are walking. Your legs burn. The pain is a dull throb in the calves. It is a familiar weight. You carry the box. It is oak. It is sealed with wax. The wax is red. It is hard. It does not yield.

You do not look at the road ahead. You look at your hands. They are steady. They are gloved. Leather. Dark brown. The fingers are stiff with cold. You flex them. You feel the tendon pull. It is a small, mechanical sound. There is no music here. There is only the wet. The sound of water hitting earth. The sound of breath. Your breath is white. It vanishes quickly. The air is thin. The air is old.

You have been walking for three days. The map says you should be at the ridge. You are not at the ridge. You are in the valley. The valley is a throat. It swallows light. It swallows sound. You are small in it. You are a speck. You are a mistake.

The horse dies. You watch it. It stands. It trembles. Its eyes are wide. They are white. The whites show. The horse falls. It makes a sound like a sack of grain dropping. You do not feel it. You do not cry. You cut the saddle. You take the leather. You leave the meat. The meat is red. It is wet. The rain mixes with it. It turns brown. It turns black. You walk on. You leave the carcass. It is a marker. It is a grave.

You meet him. He is on the path. He is tall. He wears gray. He wears a cloak. The cloak is torn. It hangs like a shroud. He holds a staff. The staff is wood. It is smooth. It is worn. He does not draw a weapon. He does not raise a hand. He stands still. He looks at you. His eyes are dark. They are deep. They are empty.

"Stop," he says.

His voice is low. It is rough. It sounds like gravel. You stop. Your feet dig into the mud. You do not move. You breathe. You watch him. He steps forward. One step. Two steps. He is close now. You can smell him. He smells of sweat. He smells of iron. He smells of decay.

"Who are you?" you ask.

Your voice is flat. It is dry. It cracks. He does not answer. He looks at the box. His eyes do not blink. He looks at the wax. He looks at the seal. He looks at you. He smiles. It is a thin smile. It is cold. It is sharp.

"I am the keeper," he says.

"I am the bearer," you say.

"I know," he says. "I know what you carry."

You do not know what he knows. You do not know how he knows. You grip the box. Your knuckles turn white. The leather creaks. You feel the tension in your arm. It is a wire. It is taut.

"Give it to me," he says.

"I cannot," you say. "I must deliver it."

"To whom?" he asks.

"To the lord," you say. "To the hall."

"The hall is empty," he says. "The lord is gone."

"No," you say. "He is waiting."

"He is dead," he says. "He has been dead for a month."

The world stops. The rain stops. The sound stops. You stand. You hear your heart. It beats. It is loud. It is fast. It is a drum. It is a hammer. You look at him. You see the truth in his face. It is a mask. It is a lie. He is not a keeper. He is a thief. He is a liar. He is a ghost.

"I do not believe you," you say.

"Belief is a luxury," he says. "You have no luxury. You have only the box. And the box is heavy."

You lift the box. You feel the weight. It is heavier than it was yesterday. It is heavier than it was an hour ago. The weight is in your soul. It is in your bone. It is in your blood. You cannot put it down. You cannot drop it. If you drop it, it breaks. If it breaks, you die.

"Come with me," he says. "I will show you the hall. I will show you the grave."

You look at the path. It is dark. It is wet. It is long. You look at him. He is patient. He is calm. He is waiting. He has time. You have no time. You are running out of air. You are running out of strength.

"I will go," you say.

He nods. He turns. He walks. He does not look back. You follow. You walk behind him. You keep the distance. You keep the box. You keep your eyes on the ground. The mud is deep. It pulls at your boots. It wants to hold you. It wants to sink you. You fight it. You pull your feet free. You step. You step. You step.

The path winds. It climbs. The trees are bare. They are black. They are twisted. They look like hands. They reach out. They grasp at the sky. The sky is gray. The sky is flat. The sky is a ceiling. You are in a room. The room has no walls. The room has no door. The room is the world.

You see the hall. It is on the hill. It is stone. It is white. It is clean. It is untouched. The rain does not touch it. The mud does not touch it. The hall is perfect. The hall is a lie.

You stop. You look at the door. The door is closed. The door is iron. The door is black. There is no handle. There is no keyhole. There is no sign. There is no name.

"It is there," the man says. "It is the gate."

You look at him. He is smiling. He is still smiling. The smile is wide. It is too wide. It is wrong. It is a rictus. It is a mask.

"Open it," you say.

"I cannot," he says. "You must open it."

"I have no key," you say.

"You have the box," he says.

You look at the box. The wax is cracking. The wax is splitting. The red is turning dark. The dark is turning black. The box is breathing. The box is alive. The box is hungry.

You lift the box. You hold it up. You hold it high. You hold it over the door. The door is black. The box is red. The red touches the black. The black drinks the red. The red disappears. The box is empty. The box is light. The box is gone.

You drop it. It falls. It hits the stone. It does not break. It does not sound. It vanishes. It is dust. It is ash. It is nothing.

The man laughs. The laugh is dry. The laugh is sharp. The laugh is a knife. He steps forward. He is in your face. He is close. You can see his teeth. They are white. They are sharp. They are false.

"Knowledge is a curse," he says. "You knew. You carried the knowledge. You were the curse. Now the curse is gone. Now you are free."

He steps back. He steps away. He walks into the mist. The mist takes him. The mist swallows him. He is gone. He is never here. He is a ghost. He is a memory. He is a lie.

You stand. You are alone. You are empty. Your hands are empty. Your heart is empty. Your mind is empty. You are a vessel. The vessel is cracked. The vessel is broken. The vessel is full of nothing.

You look at the hall. The door is open. The door is wide. The door is dark. The darkness is inside. The darkness is waiting. The darkness is hungry. The darkness is you.

You step forward. You step into the hall. The floor is cold. The floor is stone. The floor is wet. You walk. You walk deeper. The walls are dark. The walls are black. The walls are closing in. The ceiling is low. The ceiling is pressing. The air is thick. The air is heavy. The air is dead.

You see the body. It is on the floor. It is the lord. He is dead. He is still. He is pale. He is gray. His eyes are closed. His mouth is open. His hands are open. He holds nothing. He has nothing. He is nothing.

You kneel. You look at him. You see the face. The face is familiar. The face is yours. The face is your mother. The face is your father. The face is the man in the gray cloak. The face is you. You are the lord. You have always been the lord. You have always been dead. You have always been carrying the box. You have always been walking. You have always been dying.

You stand. You look at the mirror. There is a mirror on the wall. The mirror is dark. The mirror is black. You see your reflection. The reflection is not you. The reflection is the man. The reflection is the keeper. The reflection is the thief. The reflection is the truth.

You break the mirror. You smash it. You use your fist. You use your head. You use your life. The glass shatters. The glass is sharp. The glass cuts you. The blood flows. The blood is red. The blood is hot. The blood is life. The blood is pain. The blood is real.

You stop. You look at your hands. They are bloody. They are broken. They are ruined. You look at the floor. The glass is there. The glass is gone. The glass is you.

You walk out. You walk down the hill. The rain is still falling. The mud is still wet. The road is still long. You are walking. You are alone. You are empty. You are free.

You do not remember your name. You do not remember the box. You do not remember the lord. You do not remember the man. You do not remember the path. You do not remember the rain. You do not remember the pain. You do not remember the truth.

You are walking. You are moving. You are alive. You are breathing. You are here. You are now. You are nothing. You are everything.

The rain hits your face. It is cold. It is clean. It washes the blood. It washes the dirt. It washes the past. It washes the future. It leaves you bare. It leaves you raw. It leaves you new.

You keep walking. You keep walking. You keep walking.