The axe bit deep into the oak. The wood splintered with a sound like a breaking bone. My hands shook. Not from cold. The air was still. The air was warm. It shook from the effort. From the repetition. Strike. Hold. Strike.

I am Thomas. I am the scholar of the house. I am the keeper of the books. But today I am a woodcutter. Today the books are dust. Today the ink is dried.

My father stood by the door. He did not move. He watched me. His eyes were dark. His eyes were deep. He held a candle. The flame was steady. The light was small. It did not reach me. It stayed with him. It stayed with the threshold.

I struck again. The axe buried itself. I pulled it out. The bark was pale. The heartwood was dark. A circle of rings. A circle of years. I counted them. I did not need to count. I knew the years.

"Thomas," he said. His voice was low. It was a whisper. It was a command. "The fire needs fuel."

I nodded. I could not speak. My throat was tight. My lungs burned. I hauled the log. It was heavy. It was dead. It was once a tree. It was once alive. It drank the rain. It reached for the sun. Now it was wood. Now it was fuel.

I dragged it to the porch. The wood groaned. The stone floor was cold under my knees. I set it down. I looked at my hands. They were red. The blood was not mine. The sap was wet. The sap was thick. It smelled of green. It smelled of life. But the life was gone. The life was leaking out.

My father stepped out. The candle flickered. The wind was rising. A thin wind. A cold wind. It came from the north. It came from the mountains. It carried the scent of snow. It carried the scent of death.

"You work hard," he said. He did not smile. He never smiled anymore. He had lost his smile. He had lost his voice. He had lost his eyes. He only had the candle. He only had the watch.

"I must," I said. My voice was rough. It was dry. Like sand. Like old paper. "The winter comes."

"The winter is here," he said. "It has always been here."

I looked at the log. The rings were visible. I touched them. They were rough. They were hard. They were cold. I thought of the tree. I thought of the roots. I thought of the soil. I thought of the rain. I thought of the light. I thought of the time. Time was a circle. We are inside the circle. We cannot leave. We only turn.

My father raised the candle. He held it high. The light flared. It illuminated the porch. It illuminated the stone. It illuminated the wood. It illuminated my face. I saw my face in the shadow. I saw my eyes. They were wide. They were bright. They were wet.

"Look," he said.

I looked. I looked at the log. I looked at the rings. I looked at the center. There was a knot. A dark knot. A black knot. It was in the middle. It was the heart.

"It is a trap," my father said. "The tree traps the time. The wood holds the year. We hold the wood. We are the wood."

I did not understand. I wanted to understand. I was a scholar. I read the texts. I read the histories. I read the laws. I knew the words. But I did not know the meaning. I did not know the truth.

"Tell me," I said. "Tell me the truth."

My father lowered the candle. The light dimmed. The shadows grew. The shadows reached for me. They were long. They were black. They were hungry.

"The truth is heavy," he said. "The truth is cold. Do you want to carry it?"

"Yes," I said. "I must."

"Then look at the knot," he said.

I looked. The knot was black. It was void. It was empty. It was a hole in the wood. It was a hole in the time. I reached out. I touched it. It was smooth. It was hard. It was cold.

A pain struck me. A sharp pain. It started in my hand. It moved up my arm. It hit my chest. It hit my head. I fell. I fell to the stone. The stone was hard. The stone was cold. I gasped. I could not breathe. The air was thick. The air was dark.

I saw things. I saw flashes. I saw a tree. A young tree. Green. Bright. I saw a hand. A small hand. Planted in the dirt. I saw a face. A boy's face. My face. I was young. I was alive. I was waiting. I was waiting for the rain.

I saw an axe. I saw the swing. I saw the fall. I saw the blood. I saw the root. I saw the ring. I saw the year.

I woke. I was on the stone. My father was gone. The candle was gone. The porch was dark. The night was dark. The wind was howling.

I sat up. My hand was shaking. My hand was red. The sap was gone. The blood was gone. My hand was pale. My hand was white. Like bone. Like ash.

I looked at the log. The knot was still there. It was black. It was empty. I looked at my hand. I looked at the log. They were the same. They were the same color. They were the same texture. They were the same fate.

I stood up. My legs were weak. My legs were stiff. I walked inside. The house was dark. The house was silent. The house was dead.

I walked to the library. The doors were heavy. I pushed them open. The hinges screamed. The air was stale. The air was dusty. I walked to the shelf. I pulled a book. The book was old. The book was dry. I opened it.

The pages were white. The words were black. I read. I read the first line. I knew the line. I had written it.

"I am Thomas. I am the scholar. I am the wood."

I dropped the book. The book hit the floor. It made a small sound. It made a soft sound. Like a leaf. Like a sigh.

I sat down. I sat in the chair. The chair was old. The chair was hard. I put my hands in my lap. I looked at my hands. They were pale. They were white. They were still.

I thought of my father. I thought of the candle. I thought of the light. I thought of the dark. I thought of the tree. I thought of the axe. I thought of the ring.

I was not the scholar. I was the student. I was the wood. I was the fuel. I was the fire. I was the ash.

I closed my eyes. The dark was total. The dark was complete. The dark was warm. The dark was soft. I let it in. I let it take me. I let it hold me. I let it keep me.

I did not fight. I did not struggle. I did not scream. I was quiet. I was still. I was empty.

The wind stopped. The wind was gone. The night was still. The house was still.

I opened my eyes. I was in the garden. I was in the dirt. I was in the dark. I was under the ground.

I felt the roots. They were around me. They were tight. They were hard. They were cold. They were pushing. They were pulling. They were holding.

I felt the rain. It was slow. It was cold. It was wet. It was clean. It was new.

I felt the light. It was dim. It was far. It was above. It was below. It was everywhere.

I was the tree. I was the root. I was the ring. I was the year.

I grew. I grew slowly. I grew quietly. I grew in the dark. I grew in the cold. I grew in the pain. I grew in the peace.

I did not move. I did not speak. I did not think. I was. I was the wood. I was the time. I was the circle.

The axe came. The axe bit deep. The wood splintered. The sound was like a breaking bone.

I did not flinch. I did not cry. I was ready. I was waiting. I was the fuel.

The fire lit. The fire burned. The fire grew. The fire died. The ash rose. The ash fell. The earth took it. The earth kept it.

The cycle turned. The wheel turned. The light faded. The dark rose.

I am Thomas. I am the wood. I am the fire. I am the ash. I am the earth.

I am here. I am gone. I am here again.