The cold got into my bones before I ever left the house. It sat there, heavy and gray, like a stone in the gut. I wrote this down on the back of a receipt, the ink smearing under my wet thumb. The paper was thin. It was cheap. Everything is cheap when you are dying, or so it seems. I am not dying. I am just walking. And walking is hard when the legs are made of rust.

My name is Elias. I was a man of few words and fewer friends. That was before the sickness took the left side of my face. Not a stroke. Something worse. Something that moved. I felt it in the mirror. The muscles there had gone slack, like wet clay left out in the rain. I used to smile with my whole mouth. Now I only move the right corner. The other side just hangs. It is a ghost of a face looking out at me.

I left the village because I could not bear the looks. People do not look at you. They look past you, or they look at the gap where your smile used to be. They flinch. A small, sharp flinch. As if I might bite. As if I am something broken that should be swept under the rug. I am not a rug. I am a man. But a man with a crooked mouth is just a scarecrow. You put it in the field to keep the crows away. You do not talk to it.

I had no money. Not a cent. I had a coat that smelled of damp wool and a bottle of water that was half empty. I had the sickness. And I had the walk. The road stretched out before me, yellow and cracked, leading nowhere I wanted to go. But there was no other way. You do not choose the road. The road chooses you.

The wind picked up. It howled through the dry grass, sounding like a woman crying for a child she had lost. I pulled my collar up. It did not help. The cold was a living thing. It had teeth. It chewed on my fingers. My hands were shaking. I tried to light a cigarette, but the flame wouldn’t catch. The match struck and died. Struck and died. I dropped it. It sizzled on the dirt.

I walked for hours. The sun went down, turning the sky the color of a bruise. Purple and black. I did not stop. To stop was to think. And to think was to feel the pain in my jaw. That dull, aching throb that never let up. It was there when I woke. It was there when I slept. It was the only constant thing in my life.

I came to a creek. The water was black and still. I knelt down to drink. My reflection stared back at me. A stranger. A monster. The left side of my face was hidden in shadow. The right side was pale and thin. I looked like a dead man who had been propped up for a photo. I spat into the water. The ripples broke the image apart. Good. Let it break. Let it go.

I kept walking. The night was deep. The stars were out, cold and distant. They did not care about me. They never did. I was a speck of dust on the ground. A speck of dust with a crooked mouth.

I found a cabin. It was small, square, made of stone. The door was open. The hinges screamed as I pushed it. The inside was dark. I lit a candle. The flame shook. I saw the walls. They were bare. There was a table. A chair. A bed with a single blanket. It was empty. Or it had been.

I sat down. My legs were stiff. I rubbed my knee. It hurt. I looked at the table. There was a glass of water. It was full. I drank it in one gulp. The water was cold. It tasted of metal. I drank the rest. I felt better. Just for a second.

Then I heard a sound. A creak. From the corner. I looked up. There was no one. Just the shadows. Just the dark. I told myself it was the wind. It was the wood settling. It was my mind playing tricks on me. I am a fool. I am a scared man.

I lay down on the bed. The blanket was thin. It did not warm me. I closed my eyes. I tried to sleep. But the pain was there. The throb in my jaw. The ache in my legs. The cold in my bones. I could not escape it.

I woke up in the morning. The light was gray. The rain was falling. I looked at my hand. The fingers were blue. I flexed them. They moved. I was still alive. I stood up. My knees cracked. I walked to the window. The view was bleak. Just trees. Just mud. Just the endless gray sky.

I left the cabin. I did not look back. I had to go. I had to keep moving. If I stopped, I would die. If I stopped, the sickness would win. If I stopped, I would be just a body. A thing.

I walked for another day. The sun was out, but it was weak. It did not warm me. I was hungry. My stomach growled. I found a berry bush. The berries were black and soft. I ate them. They tasted of dirt and sweet rot. It was enough. It was better than nothing.

I saw a bird. It was a crow. It stood on a fence post. It looked at me. It tilted its head. It cawed. A harsh, ugly sound. I stopped. I looked at it. It did not fly away. It just watched me. I felt a strange feeling. A connection. We were both alone. We were both broken. It had a limp. I had a crooked face. We were the same.

I walked past it. It stayed. I did not look back.

The end of the road was in sight. It was a hill. A high hill. At the top, there was a tree. A single tree. It was bare. It looked like a hand reaching up to the sky. I climbed the hill. My legs burned. My lungs ached. The air was thin. I could not breathe. I wanted to stop. I wanted to lie down in the grass and die. But I did not. I kept climbing.

I reached the top. I stood under the tree. I looked out. The world was spread out below me. Small. Fragile. Beautiful. I felt a surge of emotion. It was not joy. It was not sadness. It was something else. A release. A letting go.

I touched the bark of the tree. It was rough. It was cold. I closed my eyes. I felt the wind. It was strong. It pushed against me. I did not fight it. I let it push me. I let it take me.

I thought of my mother. She had died when I was young. I could not remember her face. I could only remember her hands. They were soft. They were warm. She used to hold my face. She used to kiss my forehead. She used to say, "You are fine, Elias. You are fine."

I was not fine. I was broken. I was a ruin. But I was here. I was alive. I had made it to the top of the hill. I had made it to the end of the road.

I opened my eyes. The view was still there. The world was still there. I was still there. I took a deep breath. The air filled my lungs. It hurt. But it was sweet.

I sat down under the tree. I leaned against the trunk. I closed my eyes. I listened to the wind. It sang. A low, mournful song. I let it wash over me. I let it take the pain. I let it take the cold. I let it take me.

I am not writing this to be saved. I am writing this to remember. To remember that I was here. That I walked. That I suffered. That I lived.

The ink is running out. The paper is tearing. My hand is shaking. I can feel the end coming. It is not scary. It is quiet. It is like falling asleep.

I forgive myself. I forgive the world. I forgive the sickness. It does not matter anymore. The mouth is crooked. The legs are weak. The heart is tired. But the spirit is free.

I am free.

The wind is getting stronger. It is pulling me. It is pulling me away. I am light. I am nothing. I am the air.

I am gone.