The bell tolled at vespers. It did not sound like metal. It sounded like a scream trapped in a throat of stone. I dropped my pen. The ink spilled. It looked like blood. It was not blood. It was just ink.

We are in the abbey. The year is old. The air is thick with smoke and fear. I am not a monk. I am a scribe. I am a servant to the word. I serve Abbot Corvus. He is not a man. He is a shadow that wears skin. His face is pale. His eyes are black pits. He does not blink. He watches. He always watches.

The abbey is a beast. Its walls breathe. The stones sweat. We live in the belly of the stone. There is no sun here. Only the light of candles. And the light of the eyes. My eyes are tired. My hands are shaking. I write what he tells me. I write the history. I write the lie.

I was not always here. I came from the coast. I came from a house of wood and rain. I left it behind. I left my name behind. I am Elias now. I am no one. I am a tool. I am a quill. I am the hand that moves. I am the mouth that speaks for the dead.

Corvus stands before me. He is tall. He is thin. He wears black. The black is so dark it seems to pull the light from the room. He holds a book. It is an old book. The pages are yellow. The text is red. It is not blood. It is cinnabar. It is the color of fire. It is the color of sin.

“You have made a mistake,” he says. His voice is soft. It is the sound of dry leaves scraping on stone. “Look.”

He points to the page. I look. I see my words. I see the name. I wrote the wrong name. I wrote the name of the saint. I wrote the name of the heretic. They are the same. Or they are different. I do not know. I am confused. My mind is fog. I cannot think. I can only see.

“I am sorry,” I say. My voice is a whisper. It dies in the air.

“Sorry is not enough,” he says. He steps closer. I can smell him. He smells of cold earth. He smells of rot. He smells of time. “The word must be perfect. The word is the body. If the word is wrong, the body dies.”

He touches my hand. His fingers are cold. They are like ice. They are like death. He guides my hand to the quill. He forces the quill to the page. I resist. I want to pull away. I cannot. My legs are lead. My arms are stone. I am fixed in place. I am a statue.

“Write,” he commands.

I write. I do not know what I am writing. I do not know who I am. The quill scratches. The sound is sharp. It cuts the air. It cuts my soul. I write the name. I write the name of the heretic. I write the name of my father.

My father was a heretic. He believed in the old gods. He believed in the sea. He believed in the wind. He did not believe in the stone. He did not believe in the silence. He believed in the noise. He believed in the life.

I killed him. Or I let him die. I do not remember. I was young. I was afraid. I wanted to be safe. I wanted to be clean. I wanted to be holy. I came to the abbey to wash the stain from my hands. I came to wash the sin from my soul.

But the stain remains. It is in the ink. It is in the bone. It is in the breath.

Corvus watches. He does not smile. He does not frown. He is empty. He is a vessel. He is a hole in the world.

“You are ready,” he says.

“Ready for what?” I ask.

“For the work.”

The work. What is the work? I do not know. I do not want to know. I want to stop. I want to run. I want to go back to the coast. I want to feel the wind. I want to hear the waves. But I cannot. I am here. I am trapped.

The abbey shifts. The walls groan. The floor trembles. Dust falls from the ceiling. It lands on my hair. It lands on my clothes. It tastes of ancient dust. It tastes of death.

Corvus turns. He walks to the window. The window is high. It is narrow. It is covered in grime. Outside, it is dark. It is always dark. There is no night. There is no day. There is only the dark.

“Open it,” he says.

I do not move. My body does not obey me. My will is gone. I am a puppet. I am a ghost. I am a thing.

“Open it,” he says again. His voice is harder. It is the sound of iron on iron. It is the sound of judgment.

I walk to the window. My steps are heavy. My knees buckle. I hold the frame. The wood is cold. The wood is wet. I pull. The window resists. It is stuck. It is fused with the stone. I push. I pull. I strain. My muscles burn. My veins bulge. I cannot move it.

“Give up,” Corvus says. He stands behind me. His breath is on my neck. It is cold. It is numbing. “You are not strong enough. You are weak. You are soft. You are made of flesh. Flesh fails. Flesh rots.”

“I am not weak,” I say. It is a lie. It is a prayer. “I am here.”

“You are nothing,” he says. “You are the ink. You are the paper. You are the tool. The tool does not feel. The tool does not think. The tool does not love.”

Love. The word hits me. It is a blow. It is a shock. I remember. I remember the house. I remember the garden. I remember the roses. I remember her.

Her name is Eleanor. She is not here. She is gone. She is dead. Or she is alive. I do not know. I left her. I left her for the abbey. I left her for the silence. I left her for the safety.

I was wrong. I was so wrong. The silence is not safety. The silence is a cage. The silence is a tomb. I am in the tomb. I am with the dead.

I look at the window. The glass is cracked. There is a spider web. It is thin. It is fragile. It holds. It does not break. It is strong. It is resilient. It is alive.

I touch the web. It is soft. It is cool. It is real. I am real. I am here. I am not the ink. I am not the paper. I am not the tool. I am a man. I am a sinner. I am a son. I am a lover.

Corvus laughs. It is a low sound. It is a growl. It is the sound of a predator. “You cling to the past. The past is dead. The present is here. The future is mine.”

“No,” I say. My voice is steady. It is calm. It is clear. “The future is ours.”

He stops. He looks at me. His eyes are wide. His mouth is open. He is surprised. He is afraid. I see it. I see the fear in the black pits. I see the doubt. I see the crack.

“You are a scribe,” he says. His voice is weak. It is thin. It is broken. “You write what you are told. You do not think. You do not choose. You do not act.”

“I write what I see,” I say. “I see you. I see the truth. I see the lie. I write the truth.”

He steps back. He touches his chest. He clutches his robe. He is pale. He is shaking. He is not a shadow. He is a man. He is a scared man. He is a small man.

“Stop,” he whispers. “Stop writing.”

I do not stop. I pick up the quill. I dip it in the ink. The ink is black. The ink is dark. The ink is deep. I write. I write the name. I write the name of the saint. I write the name of the heretic. I write the name of Corvus. I write the name of the demon. I write the name of the truth.

The walls shake. The floor cracks. The dust falls. The candles go out. The dark comes. The dark is total. The dark is absolute. I cannot see. I cannot hear. I cannot feel. I am alone. I am with myself. I am with my sins. I am with my memories.

I keep writing. I write in the dark. I write by feel. I write by heart. I write by soul. The quill scratches. The sound is loud. It is clear. It is sharp. It cuts the dark. It cuts the silence. It cuts the fear.

I hear a sound. It is a scream. It is a howl. It is a cry. It is Corvus. He is screaming. He is begging. He is crying. He is not a god. He is not a king. He is a child. He is a victim. He is a monster.

I stop. I put down the quill. I stand. I wait. I listen.

The screaming stops. The silence returns. It is heavy. It is thick. It is dead.

I open my eyes. The candles are lit. The room is still. Corvus is gone. His chair is empty. His robe is gone. The book is gone. The page is blank. The ink is dry.

I look at my hands. They are clean. They are smooth. They are soft. They are not stained. They are not dirty. They are free.

I walk to the window. I open it. The air rushes in. It is cold. It is fresh. It is sweet. It smells of rain. It smells of sea. It smells of life.

I look out. The dark is gone. The sky is blue. The sun is bright. The light is gold. The light is warm. The light is alive.

I step out. I climb down. The stones are rough. The air is sharp. I breathe. I breathe deep. I breathe hard. I breathe life.

I walk. I walk fast. I walk hard. I walk away. I leave the abbey. I leave the stone. I leave the silence. I leave the fear. I leave the lie.

I am on the road. The road is long. The road is hard. The road is dusty. The road is real. I am on the road. I am free. I am alive. I am here.

I think of Eleanor. I think of the roses. I think of the garden. I think of the home. I think of the past. The past is not dead. The past is alive. The past is strong. The past is true.

I am not a scribe. I am not a tool. I am not a ghost. I am a man. I am a son. I am a lover. I am a sinner. I am a saint. I am both. I am nothing. I am everything.

The wind blows. The wind is cold. The wind is strong. The wind is free. I feel it on my face. I feel it in my heart. I feel it in my soul.

I am home. I am not home. I am on the road. The road is home. The road is life. The road is truth.

I keep walking. I keep breathing. I keep living. I am alive. I am free. I am here.