The rain does not fall. It hangs. A grey veil over the moor, thick with the scent of wet wool and old blood. You walk. Your boots sink into the sod. One step. Then another. The mud sucks at your heels, pulling you down into the earth. You are not a man. Not quite. You are the hunger that lives in the belly of the village. You are the breath that fogs the windowpane. You are the shadow that lengthens when the sun is at its highest.

They call you the Hollow. It is a soft name. A kind name. It fits you like a skin that is too tight. You do not speak. You do not need to. The words of the men are dry bones in your mouth. Cracking. Useless. You carry the sack. It is heavy. Not with gold. Not with grain. With salt.

The war is far away. Or perhaps it is here. In the way the dogs do not bark. In the way the children stare with eyes that have seen too much smoke. The soldiers are gone. They left in the night. Their boots are muddy. Their blood is red on the grey grass. You walk among the bodies. You do not feel pity. Pity is for those who have a shape. You are only the space where a man used to be.

The village elder, Thomas, finds you. He is old. His face is a map of wrinkles. He does not run. He stands by the gate. His hand rests on the iron latch. He looks at you. His eyes are clear. They are the only clear things in this grey world.

"You carry much," he says. His voice is low. A rumble in the chest.

You do not answer. You shift the sack on your shoulder. The salt cuts into the flesh. It is a good pain. It reminds you that you are there.

"Put it down," Thomas says.

You do not.

"Put it down, child. The weight is not yours."

You look at him. He is small. He is frail. He is a man. You are the void. You are the thing that eats the light. Why does he speak to you as if you were warm?

"The village is empty," he says. "The men are dead. The women are gone. I am left. And you. Why are you here?"

You do not know. You have always been here. Before the war. Before the rain. You were the silence between the heartbeats. You were the cold spot on the floor.

Thomas steps forward. He reaches out. His hand is trembling. He touches the sack. The salt is damp. It sticks to his fingers. He pulls his hand back. He wipes it on his coat.

"It is not for us," he says. "It is for the land. The land is sick. The soil is sour. The crops rot in the ground. We tried to fix it. We used iron. We used fire. It did not work."

You understand. The land is hungry. It wants something it does not have. It wants the dead. It wants the memory of the living. You are the vessel. You are the mouth.

"Go to the ridge," Thomas says. "The high ground. Where the old stones stand. Put it there. Let the wind take it."

You nod. It is a small movement. A ghost of a gesture.

Thomas watches you go. He does not follow. He stands in the rain. His hat is soaked. His shoulders are slumped. He looks like a man who has given up. Or perhaps a man who has finally accepted.

You walk. The path is narrow. The trees are bare. They look like skeletons. Their branches reach out. They want to touch you. They want to pull you in. You walk past them. You are not afraid. Fear is a human thing. It is a spark. You are the dark that swallows the spark.

The rain begins to fall. Softly. A whisper. It soaks your clothes. It soaks your skin. You do not shiver. You are cold. You have always been cold. The cold is your home.

You reach the ridge. The wind is strong here. It howls. It moans. It sounds like the village. Like the dogs. Like the children. The old stones stand in a circle. They are covered in moss. They are grey and green. They have been here for a thousand years. They have seen many wars. They have seen many rains.

You stop. The sack is heavier now. The salt has changed. It is no longer white. It is dark. It is black. It is the color of the earth. It is the color of the dead.

You open the sack. The salt spills out. It flows like water. It flows into the cracks of the stones. It flows into the grass. It flows into the air. The wind catches it. It scatters it. It turns to mist.

You watch it go. The black mist rises. It swirls. It dances. It looks like a spirit. It looks like a soul.

You feel a change. It is inside you. It is a pulling. A tearing. The weight is gone. But something else is gone too. The hunger. The cold. The void.

You look at your hands. They are not transparent. They are flesh. They are bone. They are red and warm. You are shivering. It is the first time you have shivered. It is a bad thing. It is a human thing.

You are a man.

You do not know your name. You do not know where you came from. You do not know who you were. You only know that you are here. You are solid. You are present.

The mist settles. The rain stops. The sky is clear. It is a pale blue. It is soft. It is fragile.

You look down. The stones are clean. The grass is green. The land is healed.

You turn around. The path back is long. The village is far away. You are alone. You are a man in a wilderness. You have no home. You have no past. You have no future.

But you have breath. You have blood. You have a heart that beats.

You begin to walk. Your steps are slow. Your feet are tired. The mud is still wet. The air is cold.

You think of Thomas. He is still at the gate. He is waiting. He knows what you have done. He knows what you are now.

You think of the village. The houses are empty. The windows are dark. The fields are bare. But the soil is rich. The crops will grow. The children will play. The dogs will bark.

You are not part of it. You are an outsider. You are a stranger. You are the man who was not there.

But you are here.

You walk on. The sun is setting. The light is orange. It paints the sky. It paints the trees. It paints your face.

You feel a tear. It rolls down your cheek. It is warm. It is salty. It is the same as the salt you carried. It is the same as the rain. It is the same as the blood.

You are weeping. You do not know why. You do not need to know. The tears are a release. The tears are a choice. You choose to feel. You choose to be.

The night comes. The stars appear. They are bright. They are cold. They are distant.

You find a rock. You sit. You close your eyes. You listen to the wind. You listen to your own breath.

You are not a ghost. You are not a hunger. You are a man. A man who has been born again. A man who has chosen to be small. A man who has chosen to be human.

It is a sad choice. It is a brave choice.

You sleep. The dream is dark. The dream is full of voices. The voices are kind. They whisper your name. You do not hear it. But you feel it.

In the morning, the sun rises. The light is golden. The air is fresh.

You stand up. Your legs are stiff. Your back is sore. You look at the horizon. The village is a dot. A speck.

You take a step. Then another.

You are going home. You do not know where home is. But you are going.

The road is long. The road is hard. The road is yours.

You walk. The world is quiet. The world is waiting.

You are no longer the Hollow. You are the man who filled the void. You are the man who gave his darkness to the light.

It is a terrible thing. To be light. To be warm. To be seen.

But you do it.

You walk on.