You walk.

The road is long. The mud is deep. You are a soldier. You are also a ghost. The fog sits low on the valley floor. It tastes like iron. Your boots are heavy. Your heart is heavier. You carry a satchel. Inside is a book. It is old. The leather is cracked. The pages are yellow. It is the Chronicle of the Dead. You are its keeper. You are its prisoner.

The village is ahead. Smoke rises from the chimneys. It is a gray ribbon. It twists into the sky. You do not run. You walk. Your hands shake. You clutch the satchel to your chest. It is warm. It is alive. You are not.

You have been walking for three days. Rain has soaked your cloak. Your cloak is blue. It is the color of the army. The color of the law. The law says you must go to the village. The law says you must burn the book. The law says the book is a curse. The book is a memory. The book is a wound.

You remember the captain. His name was Thorne. He was tall. He was kind. He died in the spring. He died in the mud. You held his hand. He looked at you. His eyes were clear. He whispered. He did not speak words. He spoke a feeling. He spoke fear. He spoke love. You did not understand then. You understand now.

The village gates are wood. They are barred. You knock. No one answers. You knock again. The wood is cold. The sound is dull. You are tired. You want to sleep. You lean against the gate. You close your eyes. The book presses against your ribs. It beats like a heart.

A door opens.

A woman stands there. She is old. Her face is lined. Her eyes are sharp. She holds a lantern. The light is small. It cuts the dark. She looks at you. She does not ask your name. She sees your uniform. She sees the satchel. She knows.

You know why she looks at you. You are the enemy. You are the state. You are the fire. She is the fuel.

She steps back. She opens the gate. You enter. The village is silent. The houses are stone. The stones are wet. The air is still. You walk to the center of the village. There is a square. There is a well. The water is black. You stop. You take out the book. You open it. The pages are blank.

No. They are not blank.

You look closer. The ink is faded. It is almost gone. But you can see it. You can see the names. You can see the dates. You can see the sins. You can see the sins of the village. You can see the sins of the army. You can see the sins of the world.

The woman is behind you. She is close. You do not turn. You know she is there. You know she is watching. You know she is waiting.

You must burn the book.

The law is clear. The order is clear. You must burn the book. You must end the curse. You must save the village. You must save yourself. You hold the book. You hold the fire. The fire is in your pocket. It is a stick of flint. It is a scrap of cloth. It is your will.

You strike the flint.

The spark is bright. It is hot. It touches the cloth. The cloth catches. The fire is small. It is hungry. It wants the book. It wants the names. It wants the past.

You hold the book over the flame.

The woman steps forward.

She does not speak. She does not scream. She simply stands. She is small. She is frail. But she is solid. She is the earth. She is the stone. She is the root.

You look at her.

You see her eyes.

They are not angry. They are sad. They are full of a love you do not understand. It is not love for you. It is not love for the village. It is love for the truth. It is love for the dead. It is love for the living. It is a love that crosses the line. It is a love that breaks the law. It is a love that burns.

You understand.

The fire is in your hand. The book is in your hand. The woman is in your hand.

You drop the book.

It falls.

It does not burn.

It hits the mud.

It lies there.

The fire dies.

The spark fades.

The woman looks at the book. She looks at you. She smiles. It is a small smile. It is a sad smile. It is a smile of release.

You do not burn the book.

You keep the book.

You turn away.

You walk out of the village.

The fog is thicker now. It swallows the road. It swallows the houses. It swallows the woman. It swallows the past.

You walk.

Your boots are heavy. Your heart is light.

You are a soldier. You are a ghost. You are a keeper. You are a prisoner.

You are free.

The book is in your satchel. It is heavy. It is real. It is the only thing that is real.

You walk into the fog.

The fog is white. The fog is gray. The fog is the color of nothing.

You do not know where you are going.

You do not need to know.

You are walking.

You are alive.

The book is with you.

The names are with you.

The sins are with you.

The love is with you.

You carry them.

You carry them all.

You walk.

The road is long.

The road is endless.

You do not stop.

You cannot stop.

You must carry the weight.

You must carry the truth.

You must carry the past.

You must carry the future.

You must carry the dead.

You must carry the living.

You must carry the silence.

You must carry the sound.

You must carry the pain.

You must carry the joy.

You must carry the fear.

You must carry the hope.

You must carry the love.

You must carry the loss.

You must carry the gain.

You must carry the win.

You must carry the loss.

You must carry the end.

You must carry the beginning.

You must carry the middle.

You must carry the whole.

You walk.

The fog lifts.

The sun rises.

It is a small sun. It is a pale sun. It is a cold sun.

But it is there.

It is real.

You see it.

You feel it.

It touches your face.

It warms your skin.

It lights your eyes.

You are not a ghost.

You are not a prisoner.

You are a man.

You are a soldier.

You are a keeper.

You are a witness.

You are the truth.

You walk on.

The village is behind you.

The woman is behind you.

The book is in your hand.

The fire is in your heart.

The past is in your soul.

The future is in your steps.

You are here.

You are now.

You are enough.

You walk.

The road stretches out.

It is straight.

It is true.

You follow it.

You trust it.

You believe it.

You live it.

You die it.

You become it.

You are the road.

You are the traveler.

You are the journey.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

You are the whole.

You are the nothing.

You are the everything.

You walk.

The fog is gone.

The sky is blue.

The air is clear.

The world is open.

You are free.

You are whole.

You are you.

You walk.

The book is closed.

The names are safe.

The sins are known.

The love is real.

The truth is free.

You walk.

The sun is high.

The shadows are short.

The day is bright.

The life is good.

You walk.

The end is near.

The beginning is far.

The middle is here.

You are here.

You are now.

You are enough.

You walk.

The road is long.

The road is deep.

The road is true.

You follow it.

You trust it.

You believe it.

You live it.

You die it.

You become it.

You are the road.

You are the traveler.

You are the journey.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

You are the whole.

You are the nothing.

You are the everything.

You walk.

The story ends.

The silence begins.

The truth remains.

The love remains.

The soul remains.

You walk.

You are here.

You are now.

You are enough.