You say it out loud. You say it to the air. You say it to the mud. You say it to the grey, bruised sky that hangs low over the Appalachian ridge like a wet wool blanket.

It is not a word. It is a mark. A glyph. A seal cut into the bark of the ancient hemlocks that line the trail. You see it first as a shadow. A smudge. Then you lean in. Your breath fogs. The wood is cold. It bites your fingertips.

The mark is there.

It is red. Not the bright red of blood. Not the dry red of rust. It is the deep, arterial crimson of something that has been screaming for a century. It pulses. You know this because your heart beats in time with it. Thump. Thump. Thump. Your pulse. The tree’s pulse. The earth’s pulse. They are one.

You are Margaret. You know this. You do not check a mirror. You do not need to. The name fits the shape of your bones. It fits the ache in your knees. It fits the silence that has eaten your voice for three weeks.

You are walking. You have been walking for six hours. Your boots are soaked. The leather has turned to paper. It tears at the seams. You do not care. You walk until your feet are numb. You walk until the numbness becomes a sharp, white fire. You walk because if you stop, you will remember. And if you remember, you will break.

The forest is thick. The air is heavy. It smells of rot and rain and iron. It smells of the inside of a tomb. It smells of the inside of a womb.

You see the mark again. Higher up. On a different tree.

It is the same mark.

You touch it. The wood is warm. It is wet. It oozes.

You do not wipe it away. You let it stain your skin. You let it stain your soul.

You think of your mother.

You think of her hands.

They were strong. They were rough. They smelled of soap and bleach and dirt. They were the hands that made you. They were the hands that held you when the world was too big and too dark. They were the hands that left.

She left on a Tuesday.

It was raining. The rain fell in sheets. It hammered the roof. It drummed on the windows. It drowned out the sound of her car starting. It drowned out the sound of her engine revving. It drowned out the sound of her heart breaking.

You stood at the window. You watched her go. You did not wave. You did not call out. You stood still. You were a statue. You were a ghost. You were a thing made of stone and silence.

She did not look back.

You know she did not look back.

You know because you would have seen it. You would have felt it. You would have screamed.

But she did not look back.

And you did not scream.

And you did not break.

Not yet.

You walk on. The trail narrows. The trees close in. The light fades. The world becomes a tunnel. A throat. A place where things go to die.

You see the mark again.

This one is different.

It is larger. It is deeper. It is a wound.

You reach out. You touch it.

The pain is instant. It is electric. It is white. It is hot. It is cold. It is everything. It is nothing.

You pull your hand back.

You look at your palm.

It is covered in red.

You do not wipe it off.

You walk faster. Your legs burn. Your lungs burn. Your heart burns.

You are not walking anymore.

You are running.

You are running from the mark. You are running from the pain. You are running from the truth.

The truth is this:

The mark is you.

The mark is your mother.

The mark is the bond that ties you to the earth. The bond that ties you to the blood. The bond that ties you to the pain.

You cannot escape it.

You cannot deny it.

You cannot break it.

You can only carry it.

You can only bear it.

You can only bleed.

The trail ends at the cliff.

The cliff drops away into the mist. The mist is thick. It is white. It is cold. It is alive.

You stand at the edge.

You look down.

You see nothing.

You see only the grey.

You see only the void.

You see only the end.

You close your eyes.

You breathe in.

You breathe out.

You feel the wind. It is cold. It is sharp. It cuts your face. It cuts your skin. It cuts your soul.

You open your eyes.

You see the mark.

It is on the rock.

It is on the stone.

It is on the earth.

It is everywhere.

You kneel.

You press your palm to the rock.

The rock is warm.

The rock is wet.

The rock is alive.

You feel the pulse.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

It is your mother’s pulse.

It is your pulse.

It is the pulse of the world.

You do not pull away.

You do not scream.

You do not cry.

You hold on.

You hold on.

You hold on.

The pain is gone.

The pain is replaced by something else.

Something warm.

Something heavy.

Something true.

You understand now.

The sacrifice is not death.

The sacrifice is presence.

The sacrifice is connection.

The sacrifice is the act of staying.

Your mother stayed.

In her way.

In her silence.

In her absence.

She stayed in the mark.

She stayed in the blood.

She stayed in the bond.

And you are here.

You are here because she stayed.

You are here because the mark holds.

You are here because the root is deep.

You stand up.

Your legs shake.

Your body aches.

Your soul is full.

You turn away from the cliff.

You turn back to the trail.

You begin to walk.

You walk slowly.

You walk steadily.

You walk with purpose.

You walk with peace.

The forest is quiet.

The trees are still.

The air is still.

The mark is still.

You are still.

You are whole.

You are home.

You do not know if this is true.

You do not know if this is real.

You do not know if this is salvation.

But you know it is enough.

It is enough.

It is enough.

You walk.

You walk.

You walk.

The sun rises.

The sun is red.

The sun is gold.

The sun is warm.

It touches your face.

It touches your skin.

It touches your soul.

You close your eyes.

You smile.

You do not know why.

You do not know what for.

But you smile.

You smile.

You smile.

The world is big.

The world is dark.

The world is hard.

But you are here.

You are here.

You are here.

And that is all.

And that is enough.

And that is all.

And that is enough.

And that is all.

And that is enough.