The letter is in your hand. The paper is thin. It smells of damp wool and old iron. You are walking. The road is wet. Mud clings to your boots. You are a guard. You are the keeper of the gate. The gate is high. The stone is cold. You do not look up. You look at your hands. They are shaking.

The date is written in ink. It is black. It is dry. It says the third day of the cold month. You remember that day. The wind was sharp. It cut through your tunic. It bit your skin. You were on the wall. You watched the trees. The branches were bare. They looked like bones. They looked like wires. They were black against the grey sky.

Your father is dead. He died in the cell below. He died in the dark. He did not scream. He only stopped. His breath went out. His eyes closed. You held his hand. It was cold. It was heavy. It was like stone. You pulled it free. You washed your hands. You went back to your post. You did not cry. You are a guard. Guards do not cry. Guards do not break. You are the law. The law is the stone. The stone does not feel.

But you felt it. You felt it in your chest. It was a hole. It was a void. It sucked the air from your lungs. You stood on the wall. You watched the trees. The branches moved. They swayed. They danced. They were alive. You are not alive. You are the wall. You are the gate. You are the stone.

The letter is still in your hand. You read it again. The words are simple. They are clear. They are cruel.

"Your father was a traitor. He betrayed the King. He betrayed the faith. He is gone. You are cleared. You are free. Come to the city. Come to the court. Bring your sword. Bring your honor. Come and serve. Come and be what you were born to be."

You drop the letter. It hits the mud. It spreads. The ink blurs. The words swim. You cannot read them. You do not want to read them. You want to burn it. You want to tear it. You want to scream. You cannot. Your voice is gone. Your throat is tight. Your jaw is locked. You are a machine. You are a tool. You are a thing.

You walk. Your steps are heavy. The mud pulls at your feet. You do not stop. You cannot stop. The road is long. The road is endless. The sky is low. The clouds are dark. They are pressing down. They are crushing you. You are small. You are nothing. You are dust.

You reach the gate. The gate is closed. The chain is thick. The iron is cold. You touch it. You feel the metal. You feel the cold. It seeps into your skin. It freezes your blood. You are the guard. You are the keeper. You are the stone.

You stop. You stand before the gate. You look at the chain. You look at the lock. The lock is old. The lock is rusted. The lock is weak. You know this. You have checked it every day. You have polished it every week. You have oiled it every month. You know its weakness. You know how to break it. You have the tools. You have the strength. You have the will.

You are a traitor.

The thought hits you. It is a blow. It is a strike. It is a hammer. It cracks your skull. It shatters your mind. You are a traitor. You let him die. You let him die alone. You let him die in the dark. You were his son. You were his blood. You were his shield. You were his sword. You were nothing. You were a coward. You were a ghost. You were a lie.

You reach for your sword. The hilt is leather. It is soft. It is worn. It is yours. You have carried it for ten years. You have bled for it. You have died for it. You live for it. You pull it from your hip. The steel sings. It is a high note. It is a clear note. It is a beautiful note. It is the sound of death.

You raise the sword. You look at the lock. The lock is small. The lock is fragile. The lock is afraid. You are not afraid. You are empty. You are full. You are both. You are the storm. You are the silence. You are the end.

You strike.

The blade hits the iron. The sound is loud. It is sharp. It is final. The lock shatters. The chain falls. The gate groans. The gate opens. The stone grinds. The dust flies. The air rushes in. It is cold. It is fresh. It is free.

You step through.

You are in the courtyard. The stones are wet. The sky is open. The trees are bare. They stand like sentinels. They stand like judges. They watch you. You walk. Your steps are light. Your steps are fast. Your steps are sure.

You are not free.

The realization comes. It is slow. It is heavy. It is like a stone in your stomach. You are not free. You are a traitor. You have broken the law. You have broken your oath. You have broken your father. You have broken yourself. You are no one. You are nothing. You are a shadow. You are a mistake.

You look at your hands. They are red. They are wet. The blood is yours. It is from the sword. It is from the effort. It is from the rage. It is from the pain. You look at the gate. The gate is open. The gate is broken. The gate is ruined. You have ruined it. You have ruined yourself.

You turn around. You walk back. Your steps are heavy. The mud clings to your boots. You do not look up. You do not look down. You look at the gate. You look at the broken lock. You look at the shattered chain.

You are a guard. You are the keeper. You are the stone.

You pick up the pieces. The iron is sharp. It cuts your fingers. You do not feel it. You hold the pieces. You hold the chain. You hold the lock. You are holding the pieces of your life. You are holding the pieces of your father. You are holding the pieces of your self.

You are alone.

The wind blows. It is cold. It is sharp. It cuts your face. It bites your skin. You shiver. You are cold. You are wet. You are tired. You are done.

You sit on the stone. The stone is cold. It is hard. It is real. You lean against the wall. The wall is high. The wall is strong. The wall is safe. You close your eyes. You breathe in. You breathe out. The air is thin. The air is sweet. The air is life.

You think of your father. You think of his face. You think of his hands. You think of his voice. You think of his love. It was simple. It was primal. It was bone deep. It was blood deep. It was the only thing that was real. It was the only thing that mattered.

You opened the gate. You let the darkness in. You let the chaos in. You let the void in. You were the gate. You were the barrier. You were the wall. You failed. You fell. You broke.

But you are still here. You are still breathing. You are still standing. You are still holding.

You open your eyes. The sky is grey. The trees are bare. The road is wet. The mud is dark. You are a guard. You are the keeper. You are the stone.

You stand up. Your legs are stiff. Your back is sore. Your body is broken. You are not broken. You are whole. You are complete. You are the sum of your parts. You are the choice. You are the act. You are the consequence.

You walk to the gate. You pick up the remaining pieces. The iron is cold. The iron is hard. The iron is real. You hold them. You hold them tight. You hold them against your chest. You feel their weight. You feel their cold. You feel their truth.

You are a traitor. You are a son. You are a guard. You are a man. You are a choice.

You put the pieces down. You leave them in the mud. You leave them in the rain. You leave them in the dark. You do not look back. You do not turn around. You do not hesitate.

You walk away.

The road is long. The road is wet. The sky is low. The clouds are dark. You are small. You are nothing. You are dust.

But you are walking.

Your steps are sure. Your steps are steady. Your steps are strong. You are not running. You are not hiding. You are not fleeing. You are walking. You are going. You are living.

The wind blows. It is cold. It is sharp. It cuts your face. It bites your skin. You do not care. You do not feel. You are the stone. You are the wall. You are the gate.

You are free.

You are not free.

You are you.

The letter is in the mud. The ink is blurred. The words are gone. The name is gone. The command is gone. The order is gone. You are gone. You are here.

You are here.

You are here.

You are here.

The trees sway. The branches dance. The leaves are gone. The branches are bare. They are black. They are white. They are grey. They are everything. They are nothing.

You are everything. You are nothing.

You walk. You walk. You walk.

The end is not a door. The end is a road. The end is a step. The end is a breath.

You breathe. You walk. You live.

You are the golden circuit. You are the loop. You are the circle. You are the stone. You are the man.

You are here.