"Stay."

The word hangs in the air. It is thick. It is cold.

"Stay," you say again. Your voice is small. It breaks on the edge of the door.

The man does not look at you. He looks at the map. The map is old. The ink is faded. The lines are red. The red is like blood. The red is like fire.

"Who is it?" you ask.

He does not answer. He draws a line. The line cuts across the valley. The valley is where your mother sleeps. The valley is where the mist comes in.

"It is a boundary," he says. "It is the only way to keep them out."

"Keep who out?"

"The ones in the dark."

You step inside. The office smells of dust. It smells of coal. It smells of old paper. The desk is oak. The oak is dark. The oak is hard.

You sit. You do not ask for a chair. You sit on the floor. Your legs are cold. The floor is stone. The stone is wet.

"Tell me," you say.

He turns. He looks at you. His eyes are grey. The grey is like the sky. The sky is always grey. The sky is always low.

"You are the son of the Keeper," he says. "Your mother walked the line. She held the line. Now she is part of the line."

"I do not understand."

"Look."

He points to the window. The window is high. The glass is thin. Outside, there is nothing. There is only the fog. The fog is white. The fog is moving. It moves like a snake. It moves like a breath.

"Your mother is in there," he says.

You look. You see a shape. The shape is tall. The shape is thin. It stands in the mist. It does not move. It waits.

"She is not dead," you say.

"She is not alive."

"How?"

"The war took the land. The war took the people. The war took the light. What is left is the memory. The memory is strong. The memory is hungry."

You stand up. Your knees pop. Your back aches. You are young. You are tired. You are afraid.

"I want to save her."

The man laughs. The laugh is dry. The laugh is like leaves.

"You cannot save her. You can only join her."

"No."

"You must cross the boundary."

"I will not cross."

"Then the boundary will cross you."

He picks up a pen. The pen is black. The pen is long. He draws a circle. The circle is around your name.

"Sign," he says.

"I will not sign."

"Then you are the enemy."

"I am no one's enemy."

"Everyone is an enemy to the line. The line does not know friend or foe. The line only knows threat."

You look at the door. The door is locked. The lock is iron. The iron is cold.

"I will stay," you say.

The man nods. He puts the pen down. He goes to the shelf. He takes a bottle. The bottle is glass. The glass is green. He pours a drink. The drink is dark. The drink is sweet.

"Drink," he says.

"I will not drink."

"It is not poison. It is the water from the spring. The spring is deep. The spring is old."

You take the glass. Your hands shake. The water is cold. The water is clear. You drink. It tastes of metal. It tastes of earth. It tastes of grief.

"Who are you?" you ask.

"I am the Warden."

"Who appointed you?"

"No one. The line appointed me. The line has no master. The line has no end."

You drink again. The room spins. The walls move. The desk stretches. The map grows. The red lines bleed. They run across the floor. They run across your hands.

"Your mother," he says. "She did not fight the war. She fought the silence. The silence is louder than the guns. The silence eats the mind. She held the silence. She became the silence."

"I want to see her."

"You can see her. But you cannot speak to her. The line separates the living from the kept. The kept do not speak. The kept do not dream. The kept only wait."

"Wait for what?"

"For the end of the war. For the end of the line. For the end of us."

The fog presses against the glass. It knocks. It taps. It scratches.

"Open the door," you say.

"I cannot."

"Open it."

"If I open it, the line breaks. If the line breaks, the dark comes in. If the dark comes in, they are free. If they are free, they take everything. They take the past. They take the present. They take the future."

"I don't care."

"You care. You have always cared. That is why you are here. That is why you were sent."

"Sent?"

"Your father sent you. Before he went into the dark. He sent you to finish what she started."

"My father is dead."

"Your father is in the line. Like your mother. Like me. We are all in the line. We are all the boundary."

You look at your hands. They are translucent. You can see the veins. The veins are black. The veins are moving.

"Am I dead?" you ask.

"No. You are alive. But you are thin. The line makes you thin. The line makes you light. The line makes you ready."

"Ready for what?"

"To walk."

You stand. You walk to the window. The glass is warm. The fog is cold.

"I will not walk," you say.

"You must."

"I will stay here."

"There is no here. There is only the line. There is only the walk. There is only the watch."

You turn to the Warden. He is sitting. He is reading. He is ignoring you.

"Where is she?" you ask.

"Everywhere. She is in the mist. She is in the stone. She is in the air. She is in your blood."

You touch your chest. Your heart beats. It beats slow. It beats hard. It beats like a drum.

"I feel her," you say.

"You feel the line. The line is love. The line is pain. The line is the only thing that holds the world together."

You walk to the door. You push it. It does not move. You pull it. It does not move. You kick it. The wood splinters. The wood is old. The wood is weak.

Behind the door, there is a voice. It is a woman’s voice. It is soft. It is sweet. It is sad.

"Come to me," the voice says.

You stop. You listen. The voice is your mother.

"Come to me," she says. "It is cold here. It is quiet here. It is safe here."

You want to go. You want to run. You want to break the door. You want to join her. You want to be part of the silence. You want to be part of the mist.

But you stop. You remember the map. You remember the red line. You remember the Warden.

"If I go," you say, "what happens to the line?"

"It ends," the voice says. "And the dark comes."

"No," you say. "I will not let the dark come."

You turn back to the room. The Warden is gone. The desk is empty. The map is gone. The window is gone. The walls are gone.

You are standing in the fog. The fog is everywhere. It is up to your neck. It is in your mouth. It is in your ears.

You see a path. The path is narrow. The path is straight. It leads into the dark.

You see a light. The light is far. The light is small. It is your mother.

You take a step. The fog pulls at you. It pulls at your legs. It pulls at your arms. It pulls at your heart.

You take another step. Your foot sinks. The ground is soft. The ground is wet. The ground is alive.

You walk. You walk slowly. You walk carefully. You do not look back. You do not look forward. You look only at the next step.

The fog sings. The song is old. The song is sad. The song is beautiful.

You walk on. The line stretches behind you. The line grows strong. The line grows bright.

You are the boundary. You are the wall. You are the shield.

You do not save her. You do not lose her. You hold her. You hold the line. You hold the world.

The war is over. The guns are silent. The bombs are spent. The men are dead. The women are gone.

But the line remains. The line stands. The line waits.

You stand. You wait.

The mist clears. The sun rises. The sun is pale. The sun is weak.

You see the village. The village is empty. The houses are broken. The fields are barren.

But the line is there. The line is green. The line is alive.

You smile. You do not cry. You do not shout.

You are home. You are the home. You are the boundary.

You are the Wistful Mountain. You are the silence. You are the love that does not speak. You are the watch that does not end.

The fog settles. The day begins.

You walk.