The coat is gone.

It was there a moment ago. Or perhaps it never was. You are standing in the station. The air smells of wet wool and diesel. The platform is empty. Only the tracks hum beneath your feet. A low, metallic thrum. Like a dying insect.

You look down. Your hands are bare. You feel the cold. It bites into your knuckles. You remember the weight of the collar. The heavy, dark wool. The brass buttons. They were cold to the touch. They were always cold.

You do not miss it. Not yet. You missed it long before you left.

You walk toward the gate. Your steps are quick. Short. You do not look back. There is nothing to see. Just the gray sky. Just the rusted fence. Just the silence.

The train is late. You know this. You have known it for years. Time is a liar here. It stretches. It snaps. You wait. You stand still. Your shadow is long and thin. It stretches out across the concrete. It looks like a finger. Pointing at nothing.

A man approaches. He is tall. He wears a gray suit. His face is pale. He has no eyes. Or perhaps they are just closed. He holds a clipboard. He does not speak. He only looks. His gaze is heavy. It presses against your skin. You feel it. A weight. A judgment.

You lower your head. You count the tiles on the ground. One. Two. Three. Four. The number is wrong. There are only three tiles. But you count four. You must count four. If you stop at three, the ground will open. If you stop at three, the truth will come out. And you are not ready for the truth. Not yet.

The man raises his hand. He holds a pen. He writes. You do not know what he writes. You do not care. You keep counting. One. Two. Three. Four. One. Two. Three. Four.

The train comes. It does not make a sound. It simply appears. A blur of steel and glass. It stops. The doors open. They open without a click. Without a hiss. Just a widening of dark space.

You step inside. The car is empty. The seats are red. They look like dried blood. You sit. You put your hands in your lap. You clench them. You unclench them. You clench them again.

The train moves. The world blurs outside the window. Trees. Fields. A house. A car. Nothing stays still. Nothing stays the same. You watch the house. It has a blue door. The door is closed. You know who lives there. You know who used to live there. You do not need to see their face. You know the shape of their absence.

You think of the coat. You think of the day you took it off. It was a cold day. Colder than this one. You stood in the yard. The grass was brown. You pulled the collar up. You buttoned it to the chin. It felt like armor. It felt like skin.

You had argued. Words had flown. Sharp. Broken. You had thrown your hands up. You had said, *I am not yours.* He had said, *You are mine.* The words hung in the air. They did not fall. They stayed. They stuck to the glass. They stuck to the wind.

You had walked out. You had not looked back. You had not taken the coat. You left it on the hook. You left it there. You left it with him. You left it with the house. You left it with the silence.

You told yourself it was freedom. You told yourself it was choice. But it was not. It was fear. It was the fear of being seen. The fear of being known. The coat was a mask. You had worn it so long you forgot your own face. You forgot your own name.

Now you are here. In the train. In the void. The coat is gone. You are naked. But you do not shiver. The cold is inside you. It has always been inside you. It is part of you. It is your blood.

The train stops. Another station. The doors open. No one gets on. No one gets off. The station is different. It is smaller. The platform is dirt. The sky is higher. The air is thinner.

You stand. You step off. The ground is soft. It sucks at your shoes. You walk. You do not know where you are going. You do not know where you are. You only know you are moving. You only know you are away.

You find a path. It winds through the trees. The trees are bare. They look like bones. They reach up. They scratch at the sky. You walk between them. Your breath fogs. It disappears. It is gone. Like you.

You hear a sound. A rustle. A shift in the leaves. You stop. You listen. Your heart beats. It is loud. It is fast. It is the only sound.

You wait.

Nothing comes.

You move on.

The path ends at a clearing. In the center of the clearing is a stone. It is large. It is gray. It is covered in moss. You walk to it. You touch it. It is cold. It is hard. It is real.

You look around. The trees circle you. They close in. They form a wall. You are in a cage. But the cage is made of wood. And the wood is dead. And the dead do not bite.

You sit on the stone. You rest. Your legs are tired. Your mind is tired. You close your eyes. You see the coat. You see the brass buttons. You see the dark wool. You see the man. You see the house. You see the blue door.

You open your eyes. The world is gray. The world is silent. The world is waiting.

You stand. You walk. You do not stop. You do not look back. You walk until the trees are gone. You walk until the path is gone. You walk until the world is gone.

You are alone.

You are free.

You are lost.

You find a town. It is small. It is quiet. The streets are narrow. The houses are old. The people are strange. They look at you. They do not smile. They do not speak. They only watch.

You go to a shop. The shop is dark. The lights are low. The shelves are empty. There is a woman behind the counter. She is old. Her hair is white. Her eyes are sharp. She looks at you. She sees you. She sees the bare shoulders. She sees the empty hands.

She does not ask for money. She does not ask for words. She takes a package from the shelf. She hands it to you. It is wrapped in brown paper. It is tied with string.

You take it. You hold it. It is warm. It feels heavy. It feels real.

You thank her. She does not answer. She looks away. She turns back to her work. She arranges nothing. She cleans nothing. She just stands. She just waits.

You leave. You walk down the street. The air is cold. The wind is strong. You unwrap the package. You open the paper. You pull the string.

It is a coat.

It is not the old coat. It is not the dark wool. It is not the brass buttons. It is a new coat. It is light. It is white. It is soft. It is thin. It is fragile.

You put it on. It fits. It fits perfectly. It covers your shoulders. It covers your chest. It covers your skin. It is like a second skin. It is like a breath.

You look in a window. You see your reflection. You see the white coat. You see your face. Your face is not a mask. Your face is yours. It is broken. It is scarred. It is real.

You smile. You do not know why. You smile because you are here. You smile because you are alive. You smile because the coat is yours. Not his. Not the house. Not the silence. Yours.

You walk on. The town ends. The road begins. The road is long. The road is hard. The road is unknown.

You walk. You walk. You walk.

The white coat flaps in the wind. It catches the light. It shines. It glows. It is a beacon. It is a warning. It is a promise.

You do not look back. There is nothing to see. Only the road. Only the sky. Only the silence.

You are not alone. You are with the coat. You are with the cold. You are with the truth.

The truth is this. You did not leave the coat to be free. You left the coat to be seen. You left the coat to be known. You left the coat to be loved. And you are not loved. You are not known. You are not seen.

But you are here. You are walking. You are breathing. You are alive.

And that is enough.

And that is nothing.

And that is everything.

You walk until the sun sets. You walk until the stars come out. You walk until the road dissolves into the dark.

You are still walking.

You are still here.

You are still you.