The train slows. You step onto the platform. The air is thick with coal dust. It tastes of iron. You hold the lantern. It is heavy. The glass is cracked. The wick is low.

This is Harrowgate. The town is old. The brick is red. The sky is grey. You come home. You have run. You have fled. The years are long. The years are short. You are tired. Your bones ache. The lantern sways. The flame is small. It does not go out.

You look at the station master. He is old. His face is a map of lines. He sees you. He does not speak. He nods. He knows. He has always known. He points to the path. The path is narrow. The grass is dry. You walk.

The town is silent. The windows are dark. You pass the mill. The gears are still. The water is still. Everything is stopped. Time is a river. You are a stone. The stone is worn. You are worn. The lantern is worn. The glass is thin. The light is weak.

You reach the gate. The iron is cold. It is rusted. You push it open. It groans. The sound is sharp. It cuts the air. You step inside. The garden is wild. The roses are dead. The stems are black. The leaves are gone. You remember the roses. You remember the red. You remember the scent. It is gone. The dust remains.

The house is tall. The porch is sagging. The wood is grey. You stand before the door. Your hand shakes. You touch the wood. It is rough. It is dry. You have not touched this in ten years. Ten years is a lifetime. Ten years is a breath. You do not know. The lantern is your only friend. The flame flickers. It is afraid.

You enter. The floorboards creak. They know your weight. They remember your steps. The air is stale. It smells of dust. It smells of time. You walk to the center. You stop. The room is empty. The chairs are stacked. The table is bare. There is nothing. There is everything.

You hear a sound. A cough. It is wet. It is deep. It comes from the back. From the room. Your room. No. His room.

You move. Your feet are bare. The floor is cold. You do not care. The lantern is in your hand. You are a thief. You are a ghost. You are the shadow. You approach the door. The wood is dark. You knock. No. You do not knock. You open it.

He is there. He sits in the chair. He is small. He is shrunken. His skin is paper. His eyes are closed. He looks like a child. He looks like a ghost. He looks like death.

He opens his eyes. They are white. They are blind. He sees you. He does not know. He smiles. It is a sad smile. It is a broken smile.

"Who are you?" he asks. His voice is thin. It is like dry leaves.

You do not answer. You cannot. Your throat is tight. You hold the lantern. You hold the light. You are the light. You are the dark. You are the sin. You are the penance.

"I am the traveler," you say. The words are small. They are weak.

He nods. He accepts it. He does not question. He is tired. He is too tired to question. He looks at the lantern. He looks at the flame. He looks at you. He sees the crack in the glass. He sees the soot on your face. He sees the truth.

He does not speak. He waits. He is patient. He has waited for years. He has waited for days. He has waited for hours. He is still waiting.

You sit down. The chair is hard. The wood is cold. You are close. You are far. The distance is small. The distance is vast.

"I came back," you say. The words are heavy. They are stones.

He nods. He knows. He has always known. He did not need to know. He needed to wait. The waiting was the punishment. The waiting was the prayer.

"You are old," he says. It is not a question. It is a fact.

"You are old," you say. It is not a reply. It is a mirror.

He looks at your hand. He looks at the lantern. The flame is low. The wick is burning. The oil is gone. The light is dying.

"Why did you leave?" he asks. The voice is soft. It is like a whisper. It is like a wind.

You do not answer. The answer is in the air. The answer is in the dust. The answer is in the silence. You left because you loved him. You left because you loved yourself. You left because the love was too big. The love was too hot. It burned. It consumed. It ate. It left nothing.

"I was afraid," you say. The words are small. They are true.

He nods. He is not angry. He is not sad. He is empty. He is full. He is both.

"The house is cold," he says.

"Yes," you say.

"The fire is out."

"Yes."

"You have the lantern."

"Yes."

He looks at you. His eyes are blind. His eyes are clear. He sees the light. He sees the dark. He sees you. He sees the truth.

"You are the maze," he says.

You do not understand. You shake your head. The lantern sways. The flame is weak.

"The walls are me," he says. "The path is you. You walked the circles. You walked the loops. You never left. You never stayed. You were the wall. You were the way. You were the prison."

The words are sharp. They cut. They bleed. You feel the pain. You feel the truth. You are the maze. You are the lock. You are the key. You are the door. You are the wall.

You look at the lantern. The glass is cracked. The light is breaking. The flame is dying. The oil is gone. The wick is char. The light is fading.

"I am sorry," you say. The words are small. They are dust.

He does not answer. He closes his eyes. He breathes. The breath is shallow. The breath is weak. The breath is life.

You stand up. The chair scrapes. The sound is loud. It is loud in the silence. It is loud in the dark.

You hold the lantern. You hold the light. You are the light. You are the dark. You are the sin. You are the penance. You are the father. You are the son. You are the wall. You are the way.

You walk to the window. The glass is dirty. The view is grey. The sky is dark. The night is deep. The night is full. The night is empty.

You break the glass. The sound is sharp. It is clean. It is final. The shards fall. They are like stars. They are like tears. They are like dust.

You step outside. The air is cold. It is sharp. It cuts your skin. It cuts your soul. You do not feel it. You do not care.

You hold the lantern. The flame is gone. The glass is broken. The light is gone. You are in the dark. You are in the cold. You are in the night.

You walk. You walk away. You walk toward the town. You walk toward the world. You walk toward the end.

The lantern is dead. The glass is gone. The light is gone. You are the dark. You are the silence. You are the dust.

You walk. You do not stop. You do not look back. The house is behind you. The house is a ghost. The house is a memory. The house is a lie.

The town is silent. The windows are dark. The streets are empty. The people are gone. The people are dust. The people are gone.

You walk. You walk to the edge. The edge is the river. The river is black. The river is deep. The river is fast. The river is slow.

You stop. You look at the water. The water is still. The water is moving. The water is life. The water is death.

You hold the lantern. It is empty. It is heavy. It is light. It is nothing.

You throw it. The glass hits the water. The sound is small. The splash is small. The ripple is small. The ripple is gone. The water is still. The water is dark.

You are still. You are dark. You are gone.

The wind blows. The wind is cold. The wind is loud. The wind is quiet. The wind is life. The wind is death.

You stand. You stand in the dark. You stand in the cold. You stand in the silence. You stand in the end.

You are the maze. You are the wall. You are the way. You are the end.

The night is deep. The night is full. The night is empty.

You are gone.