You pack the crates. This is the first thing. You do not think about it as a choice. You think about it as a task. The wood is damp. It smells of rot and wet earth. You stack the boxes in the corner of the room. The room is empty now. The furniture is gone. The wallpaper is peeling in long strips, like dead skin. You are a constable. You have worn the badge for twenty years. The badge is heavy on your chest. It pulls you down. You feel the weight of it in your bones. It is a physical thing. It is a fact. You are here. You are leaving.

The town is called Oakhaven. It is small. It is old. The houses are built of stone. The streets are narrow. The air is thick. It hangs in the throat. You breathe it in. It tastes of ash and iron. The people are few. They watch you from the windows. They do not wave. They do not speak. They are silent. Their faces are masks. They hide behind the glass. You know what they think. They think you are a traitor. They think you have failed. They are wrong. But they are certain. Certainty is a heavy thing. It is like a stone in the shoe. You walk with it. You feel every step.

You have a friend. His name is Arthur. He is old. He is thin. His hands are like roots. They are twisted and pale. He lives in the house next to yours. He is a gardener. He does not grow flowers. He grows things that have no name. The plants are strange. They are tall and dark. They have leaves that are black. They have stems that are purple. They do not move in the wind. They stand still. They are watching. You know this. You have always known this. You do not say it. You keep it inside. It is a secret. It is a weight.

You go to Arthur’s house. The door is open. The air inside is cool. It smells of soil and decay. Arthur is sitting in a chair. He is looking at the window. He does not turn around. He knows you are there. He has always known. You sit down. The chair creaks. It is a small sound. It cuts the silence.

“You are leaving,” Arthur says. His voice is low. It is like gravel.

“Yes,” you say.

“Why?”

“I must.”

Arthur smiles. It is a sad smile. It is a tired smile. He looks at his hands. He looks at the dirt under his nails.

“The garden is ready,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

He does not answer. He looks at you. His eyes are clear. They are bright. They reflect the dark room. They reflect the strange plants. You feel a chill. It is not cold. It is fear. It is a deep fear. It is in your gut.

“You have served the town,” Arthur says. “You have kept the peace. You have kept the order. But the order is a lie. The peace is a mask. We are all masks. We are all dead. We are just waiting for the soil to take us.”

You listen. You do not interrupt. You let the words settle. They are heavy. They are dense. They sink into the floor. They sink into the wood. You feel the vibration. It is a hum. It is a low hum. It is the sound of the earth.

“I cannot stay,” you say.

“No one can stay,” Arthur says. “Time is a circle. You go out. You come back. You are always here. You are always us. This is the law. This is the only law.”

You stand up. Your legs are stiff. You walk to the door. You do not look back. You know he is watching. You know the plants are watching. You feel their eyes. They are cold. They are indifferent. They do not care about your pain. They do not care about your duty. They only care about the cycle. They only care about the return.

You walk out into the street. The air is thick. It is heavy. You breathe it in. It fills your lungs. It fills your blood. You feel it in your veins. It is a poison. It is a blessing. You do not know which one it is. You do not want to know. You walk toward the gate. The gate is made of iron. It is rusted. It is old. You push it open. It groans. The sound is loud. It echoes in the alley. It echoes in your head.

You step out. The road is long. It stretches before you. It is gray. It is endless. You start to walk. Your boots hit the cobblestones. The sound is rhythmic. It is steady. It is a heartbeat. It is your heartbeat. You walk faster. You need to run. You need to escape. You need to be far away. You need to be free.

But you are not free. You feel the pull. It is strong. It is in your blood. It is in your bones. It is the pull of the town. It is the pull of the garden. It is the pull of the cycle. You try to resist. You try to push against it. It is like pushing against a wall. The wall is solid. The wall is unyielding. You are small. You are weak. You are alone.

You walk for hours. The sun sets. The sky turns red. It is a deep red. It is a blood red. The clouds are dark. They are heavy. They hang low. They touch the tops of the trees. The trees are bare. They are skeletal. They reach for the sky. They are grasping. They are hungry.

You reach the edge of the town. There is a bridge. The bridge crosses a river. The river is wide. It is dark. It flows fast. It is cold. You stop at the edge. You look down. The water is black. It is still. It is waiting. You look at the other side. There is nothing there. There is only darkness. There is only night.

You turn around. You look back at the town. The lights are on. They are small. They are dim. They are like stars. They are like eyes. They are watching you. You feel the gaze. It is piercing. It is cold. It is absolute.

You realize you cannot cross the bridge. You cannot leave. You are not meant to leave. You are part of the town. You are part of the cycle. You are part of the garden. The garden is not a place. The garden is a state. The garden is a condition. It is in you. It is in me. It is in everyone.

You turn back. You walk toward the town. Your steps are slow. They are heavy. They are inevitable. You do not fight it. You accept it. You surrender. You let go. You let the pull take you. You let the cycle turn. You let the wheel roll.

You enter the town. The streets are empty. The houses are dark. The windows are black. You walk to Arthur’s house. The door is open. The air is cool. It smells of soil and decay. Arthur is sitting in the chair. He is looking at the window. He smiles. It is a sad smile. It is a tired smile.

“You are back,” he says.

“Yes,” you say.

“I knew,” he says. “The garden called you.”

You sit down. The chair creaks. It is a small sound. It cuts the silence. You look at your hands. They are dirty. They are stained. They are like roots. They are like earth. You are part of the earth. You are part of the soil. You are part of the cycle.

You look at the plants. They are tall and dark. They have leaves that are black. They have stems that are purple. They are watching. They are alive. They are growing. They are reaching. They are taking.

You feel a pain. It is in your chest. It is a sharp pain. It is a deep pain. It is a final pain. You feel your heart beating. It is fast. It is strong. It is loud. It is the sound of life. It is the sound of death. It is the sound of the cycle.

You close your eyes. You feel the weight of the badge. It is gone. You feel the weight of the duty. It is gone. You feel the weight of the past. It is gone. You are light. You are free. You are empty. You are full. You are nothing. You are everything.

The plants grow. They reach for the light. They reach for the air. They reach for the soul. They take it. They drink it. They feed on it. They are hungry. They are always hungry. The town is quiet. The air is still. The night is deep. The cycle turns. The wheel rolls. The garden grows. You are in the garden. You are in the soil. You are in the earth. You are in the dark. You are in the light. You are in the silence. You are in the sound. You are in the end. You are in the beginning. You are in the middle. You are in the now. You are in the always. You are in the never. You are in the between. You are in the space. You are in the void. You are in the full. You are in the empty. You are in the cycle. You are in the loop. You are in the return. You are in the turn. You are in the spin. You are in the fall. You are in the rise. You are in the breath. You are in the pause. You are in the stop. You are in the go. You are in the wait. You are in the hope. You are in the fear. You are in the love. You are in the hate. You are in the pain. You are in the joy. You are in the life. You are in the death. You are in the soul. You are in the body. You are in the mind. You are in the heart. You are in the blood. You are in the bone. You are in the skin. You are in the eye. You are in the ear. You are in the nose. You are in the mouth. You are in the tongue. You are in the tooth. You are in the hair. You are in the nail. You are in the vein. You are in the nerve. You are in the cell. You are in the atom. You are in the dust. You are in the star. You are in the sun. You are in the moon. You are in the sky. You are in the sea. You are in the land. You are in the air. You are in the fire. You are in the water. You are in the earth. You are in the wind. You are in the rain. You are in the snow. You are in the ice. You are in the stone. You are in the wood. You are in the leaf. You are in the flower. You are in the fruit. You are in the seed. You are in the root. You are in the stem. You are in the branch. You are in the twig. You are in the bark. You are in the sap. You are in the juice. You are in the nectar. You are in the pollen. You are in the spore. You are in the mold. You are in the rot. You are in the decay. You are in the decay. You are in the decay.