The sky tears open above Millhaven. It is not a cloud. It is a wound. You watch it bleed grey light into the town. The rain comes sideways. It smells of iron and old dust. You are ten. You are wet. You are cold. The church steeple snaps. It falls like a broken bone. It crushes the graveyard. It crushes your father’s grave.

You run. Your shoes slip on the wet cobblestones. The water rises. It is black. It is thick. It moves with intent. You see it in the streets. The houses shake. The brickwork cracks. Dust falls from the ceilings like snow. You hide in the cellar of the bakery. The flour is everywhere. It coats your tongue. It coats your eyes. You breathe white clouds.

You are not afraid. Or perhaps you are. It is hard to tell. The fear is a dull throb in your chest. It is a stone you swallow. You wait. The rain hammers the roof. It sounds like knuckles rapping on wood. It sounds like a warning.

You climb out. The world is ruined. The river has broken its banks. It floods the lowlands. It takes the cars. It takes the bicycles. It takes the dogs. You walk through the mire. Your legs sink to the knees. The mud is warm. It feels like blood. You look for the baker. You look for Mrs. Gable. You look for anyone.

There is no one.

The town is silent. The silence is loud. It presses against your ears. It rings in your head. You are alone. You are small. The world is huge. The water laps at your ankles. It whispers. It says your name.

You do not answer. You keep walking. You walk toward the edge of town. You walk toward the old quarry. The quarry is a scar in the earth. It is deep. It is dark. You go down. The steps are slick. You slide. You catch yourself. You keep going.

At the bottom, the water is still. It is black glass. It reflects the grey sky. You see your face. It is a ghost. It is pale. It is wet. You reach out. You touch the surface. The water is warm. It is alive.

It pulls you in.

You do not fight it. You let it take you. You sink. Your lungs burn. Your eyes sting. You open your mouth. You swallow water. It tastes of salt and stone. You see shapes in the dark. They are not fish. They are not rocks. They are people. They are the dead. They float around you. They have no faces. They have no names. They are just shadows.

You swim. You kick. You struggle. You want to go up. You want to breathe. But the water is heavy. It holds you. It loves you. It is a mother. It is a grave. You realize you do not want to leave. You realize you are tired. You are so tired.

You stop moving.

You drift.

The darkness closes in. It is soft. It is warm. It is like a blanket. You close your eyes. You dream of the bakery. You dream of the smell of bread. You dream of your father’s hand on your head. You dream of a time when the sky was blue.

You wake.

You are on the shore. The rain has stopped. The sun is coming out. It is weak. It is pale. It does not warm you. You are naked. You are covered in mud. You are covered in algae. You look at your hands. They are grey. They are smooth. They are not your hands.

You stand up. Your legs are shaky. Your head spins. You look back at the quarry. The water is still. It is calm. It is waiting. You look at your reflection in a puddle. You see a child. You see a ghost. You see a thing that does not belong.

You walk back to town.

The town is different. The water has receded. It left the houses bare. It left the streets clean. The mud is gone. The dust is gone. The brickwork is whole. The church steeple is standing. It is tall. It is sharp. It points to the sky. It is not broken.

You look at your father’s grave. It is there. It is intact. The grass is green. The stone is white. It is untouched. You touch the stone. It is cold. It is solid. It is real.

You walk into the bakery. The door is open. The lights are on. Mrs. Gable is there. She is kneading dough. She is humming a song. She does not look up. She sees you. She smiles. She does not know you are wet. She does not know you are cold. She does not know you have been dead.

You walk to the counter. You look at the bread. It is fresh. It is golden. It smells of yeast and sugar. You want it. You need it. You reach for it. Your hand passes through the loaf. It is smoke. It is mist. It is nothing.

Mrs. Gable looks up. She sees your hand. She sees you. Her face changes. Her eyes widen. Her mouth opens. She drops the dough. She backs away. She hits the wall. She falls. She does not scream. She does not move. She is gone.

The bakery is empty. The lights flicker. The bread is gone. The counter is empty. The room is dark. You are alone again.

You walk out. The town is quiet. The sun is higher. It is yellow. It is harsh. It burns your skin. You feel the heat. You feel the pain. You are real. You are here.

You walk to the edge of town. You walk to the river. The river is full. It is brown. It is moving. It is fast. You look at the water. You see your reflection. It is clear. It is sharp. It is you.

You jump in.

The water is cold. It is shocking. It steals your breath. You swim. You kick. You struggle. You fight. You do not let it take you. You do not let it hold you. You swim to the shore. You crawl out. You lie in the mud. You gasp. You cough. You spew water.

You are alive.

You are still alive.

The sun shines on your face. It is warm. It is kind. You close your eyes. You feel the ground beneath you. It is hard. It is real. You open your eyes. You see the sky. It is blue. It is deep. It is endless.

You are not a ghost. You are not a shadow. You are a boy. You are wet. You are cold. You are hungry. You are alone.

You stand up. You brush the mud from your legs. You walk toward the town. You walk toward the people. You walk toward the life.

The sky is blue. The sun is bright. The world is here. You are here. You are not saved. You are not redeemed. You are just here. You are just alive.

The pain is gone. The fear is gone. The mystery is gone. There is only the day. There is only the light. There is only you.

You walk. You keep walking. The road stretches out before you. It is long. It is empty. It is yours. You take a step. You take another. You do not look back. You do not look forward. You only look down. You look at your feet. They are in the dirt. They are in the world. They are real.

The wind blows. It is gentle. It is soft. It touches your face. It cools your skin. It dries your hair. You close your eyes. You breathe. You live.

The story ends. The boy walks. The sun sets. The stars come out. The night is long. The boy is small. The world is big. But he is here. He is here. He is here.