You are running. Your lungs burn. The cold air cuts like a knife. You taste blood. It is copper. It is old. The road is mud. The mud is black. It sucks at your boots. You do not care. You run.

The village is behind you. The bells are ringing. They do not ring for joy. They ring for death. Or for judgment. You do not know. You only know the sound is a hook. It catches in your throat. You gag. You keep running.

Who are you? You do not know your name. It slipped away. It fell into the river. The water took it. You are just legs. You are just fear. You are just the weight of the stone in your pocket.

The stone. Yes. The grey stone. It is smooth. It is cold. It is yours. You found it in the quarry. You found it when you were small. You loved it. It was the only thing that did not change. The world changed. The faces changed. The words changed. The stone stayed.

You stop. You breathe. The trees are black shadows. The moon is a white eye. It watches you. It does not blink. You look at the stone. You hold it tight. The edges dig into your palm. It hurts. Good. Pain is real. Pain is you.

A shadow moves. A branch snaps. You freeze. Your heart stops. It starts again. It beats like a trapped bird. You look up.

It is him. Or someone like him. A tall man. He wears a cloak of grey wool. His face is hidden. He stands in the path. He blocks the way.

You cannot go back. You cannot go forward. You are trapped. The mist rises. It wraps around your ankles. It feels like fingers. Cold. Wet.

He speaks. His voice is low. It is gravel. It is wind in dry leaves.

"Where are you going, little ghost?"

You do not answer. You shake your head. No. You are not a ghost. You are flesh. You are blood. You are here.

He steps closer. The mist parts for him. He walks through it. It clings to him. He looks at you. You can feel his eyes. They are heavy. They are full of something dark.

"I know what you carry," he says.

You grip the stone. You hide your hand. You pull it into your sleeve.

"Show me," he says.

"I will not," you say. Your voice is a whisper. It is thin. It breaks.

He smiles. It is not a kind smile. It is a pitying smile. It is worse. It is the smile of a man who has seen too much. Who has broken too many things.

"You think it is yours," he says. "You think it saved you. You think it is your truth."

"It is my truth," you say.

"It is a lie," he says.

The words hit you. They hit your chest. You stagger back. You fall. The mud is wet. It soaks into your clothes. You are cold. So cold.

"Why?" you ask.

He does not answer. He crouches. He is close now. You can smell him. He smells of woodsmoke. He smells of rain. He smells of death.

"Look at it," he says.

He points to the stone. You look. You do not want to. But you look.

The stone is changing. It is not smooth. It is cracked. A black vein runs through it. It looks like a wound. It looks like a scar. It is not the stone you remember. It is not the stone you loved.

It is a rock. Just a rock. Ugly. Broken. Useless.

You feel the floor drop out from under you. You feel empty. You feel hollow. The stone is heavy. It is not a weight you can carry. It is a weight that crushes.

You drop it. It hits the mud. It makes a dull thud. A sound of finality.

You cry. You do not know why. You cry for the stone. You cry for the boy you were. You cry for the name you lost. You cry for the life you threw away.

The man watches. He does not help you up. He does not offer comfort. He just watches. He is the judge. He is the executioner. He is the mirror.

"Trust is a poison," he says. "You trusted the stone. You trusted it to hold you together. But it was always empty. It was always a shell. You built your world on a lie. And now the lie is dead."

You nod. You cannot speak. The words are gone. The strength is gone. You are just a body. A broken body.

He stands. He turns away. He walks into the mist. He disappears. He is gone.

You are alone. The mist is thick. You cannot see your hands. You cannot see the road. You cannot see the village. You are in a white void.

You sit in the mud. You wait. You do not move. You let the cold take you. You let the dark take you.

Time passes. Or it does not. Time is a lie. Like the stone.

A sound. A soft sound. A bird? A mouse? No. It is a footstep.

You look up. Your eyes are blurred. Your vision is poor.

A woman is there. She is small. She is old. Her hair is white. It is like snow. She wears a dress of brown wool. It is patched. It is worn.

She kneels beside you. She does not speak. She reaches out. Her hand is rough. Her fingers are stained with dirt. She touches your cheek.

She wipes the mud from your face. She is gentle. She is slow. She does not ask for the stone. She does not ask for your name.

She looks at the broken rock in the mud. She looks at you. She understands.

She does not try to fix you. She does not try to make you whole. She just stays. She sits in the mud. She sits next to you.

The mist begins to clear. The moon is still there. It is bright. It is cold.

You look at the woman. You look at her eyes. They are kind. They are tired. They have seen this before. They have seen many ghosts.

You want to speak. You want to tell her. You want to say you are sorry. You want to say you are afraid. You want to say you do not know who you are.

But the words do not come.

She takes your hand. Her hand is cold. Your hand is cold. But the contact is warm. It is real.

She does not pull you up. She does not drag you. She just holds your hand. She anchors you.

You realize something. The stone was never the point. The stone was the excuse. The stone was the cage. You locked yourself in there. You locked yourself in the past. You locked yourself in the fear.

The man was right. The stone was a lie. But the woman is not a lie. The mud is not a lie. The cold is not a lie.

You are here. You are now.

The village is far away. The bells have stopped. The silence is loud. The silence is heavy.

You stand up. Your legs shake. They are weak. But they hold.

You look at the broken stone. You do not pick it up. You leave it. You leave it for the mud. You leave it for the worms. You leave it for the rot.

It is not yours. It never was.

You turn to the woman. She nods. She points to the east. To the hills. To the dark.

You walk. You walk slowly. Your feet sink into the mud. It is hard. It is painful.

You do not look back. You do not look for the stone. You do not look for the man.

You walk with the woman. You walk into the dark. You walk into the unknown.

The cold bites. You shiver. You breathe.

You are not a ghost. You are not a hero. You are not a victim.

You are a person. You are broken. You are whole.

The road is long. The night is long.

But you are walking.

You are alive.

The mist parts. The stars appear. They are countless. They are distant. They do not care. They do not judge. They just are.

You look at them. You feel small. You feel insignificant.

But you feel free.

The stone is gone. The weight is gone.

You are light.

You walk on.

The dawn is far. The dawn is a promise. You do not know if it will come. You do not know if you will survive.

But you walk.

One step. Then another.

The mud is drying. The air is clearing.

You are here.

You are enough.