The letter was written in ink that had dried to a rust color.

Miles sat at the desk. The wood was cold. He held the quill. His hand shook.

He looked at the wall. The stone was damp. A single candle burned. The flame was low. It flickered.

He remembered the dream.

In the dream, he was old. His hair was white. He was not in the tower. He was in a field. The grass was high. The air smelled of rain. He was happy. He did not know why. He only knew he was free.

The dream ended.

He was back in the tower.

He picked up the quill. He wrote.

My dear Thomas.

I write to you from the highest room of the Spire. The wind howls here. It sounds like a beast. It does not stop. I have stopped counting the days. Time is a circle here. It spins. It breaks.

I am tired.

I know you are coming. You said you would. I believe you. But I fear what you will see.

The Spire is not just stone. It is a mouth. It swallows light. It swallows sound. It swallows memory. We are the keepers. We feed it. That is our job. That is our curse.

I used to think it was a duty. Now I know it is a sickness.

Do you remember when we were boys? We climbed the hills. We caught frogs. We laughed. We were small. We were free. We did not know about the Spire. We did not know about the knowledge.

Knowledge is a heavy thing. It sits on the chest. It makes it hard to breathe.

I learned the first sign. It was a mark on the skin. A black line. It moved. It crawled toward the heart. I thought it was a bruise. I ignored it.

Then I learned the second sign. The shadow that did not match the body. The shadow that stood still when I moved. I watched it. It watched me.

I told no one.

Fear is a bad teacher. It makes you lie. It makes you hide. I hid from you. I hid from myself.

Now I am the last one left.

The others are gone. Not dead. Gone. The Spire took them. It took their names. It took their faces. They are in the walls now. I can hear them. They whisper. They do not say words. They say sounds. Low, deep sounds. Like the earth shifting.

I talk to them. I do not know why. I think they are lonely. I think I am lonely.

Thomas, you are my friend. You are the only one who did not change. You stayed on the ground. You stayed in the village. You grew a garden. You married. You had a child.

I see you in my mind. You are old now. Your hands are rough. You smile. It is a good smile.

I am jealous of you.

I want to be like you. I want to be small. I want to be free.

But I cannot leave.

The Spire needs a keeper. It needs a mind. It needs to eat.

I have eaten well. I have given it years. I have given it secrets. I have given it love.

It is not full. It is never full.

I have made a choice.

I will not feed it anymore.

I will close the door.

I will lock the room.

I will let it starve.

It will scream. It will rage. It will try to break me.

But I will stand. I will hold.

I am not strong. I am only tired. And tiredness is a kind of strength. It is the end of struggle.

I am not afraid.

I am sad.

I miss the sun. I miss the rain. I miss the feel of soil under my fingernails.

I miss you.

I hope you are well. I hope your child is happy. I hope the garden grows.

Do not look up. Do not look at the Spire. It is not real. It is a mistake. A bad dream.

Wake up, Thomas. Wake up.

Live.

Miles set the quill down.

He looked at the paper. The words were black. They looked like ants. They crawled on the page.

He folded the letter. He sealed it with wax. The wax was red. It looked like blood.

He stood up.

His legs were stiff. He had not moved in hours. Or days. Time did not matter.

He walked to the door. The door was iron. It was cold to the touch.

He pushed it open.

The hallway was dark. The stairs spiraled down. They went deep. Into the earth.

He began to descend.

The air grew colder. The smell grew stronger. It smelled of old paper. Of dust. Of decay.

He heard the whispering. It was louder now. It was in his ears. It was in his head.

They called his name.

Miles.

Miles.

He did not answer.

He kept walking.

The stairs were endless. He lost count. One step. Two steps. Three.

He reached the bottom.

There was a room. It was round. It was empty.

In the center of the room, there was a stone. It was small. It was gray. It looked like a river rock.

Miles walked to the stone. He knelt.

He placed his hand on it.

It was warm.

It pulsed.

Like a heart.

He felt a pull. It was gentle. It was sweet. It offered him peace. It offered him silence. It offered him the end.

He closed his eyes.

He saw the field again. The high grass. The rain.

He saw Thomas.

Thomas was standing in the field. He was holding a letter. He was smiling.

Miles opened his eyes.

The stone was still there.

He pulled his hand away.

He stood up.

He turned his back on the stone.

He walked back to the stairs.

The whispering stopped.

Silence filled the room.

It was heavy. It was thick. It pressed against his skin.

He climbed the stairs.

The air grew warmer. The light grew brighter.

He reached the top.

He entered the room.

The candle was still burning. The flame was high now. It was steady.

The desk was empty.

The letter was gone.

He looked at the window.

The night was dark. The stars were out. They were cold. They were far.

He looked at his hand.

The black line was gone.

The shadow was gone.

He was alone.

But he was not empty.

He sat down.

He picked up the quill.

He did not write.

He just held it.

He waited.

The wind howled.

It did not sound like a beast.

It sounded like breath.

It sounded like life.

He listened.

He breathed.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

The candle went out.

The room was dark.

He did not light it.

He sat in the dark.

He was not afraid.

He was ready.

The door opened.

Light flooded in.

It was not moonlight.

It was morning.

A man stood in the doorway.

He was old.

His hair was white.

He wore a simple coat.

He held a lantern.

Miles looked at him.

The man smiled.

It was Thomas.

Thomas walked in.

He closed the door.

He locked it.

He turned the key.

He threw the key away.

It hit the stone floor.

It made a small sound.

Thomas looked at Miles.

Miles looked at Thomas.

They did not speak.

They did not need to.

Thomas walked to the desk.

He picked up the quill.

He looked at it.

He put it down.

He walked to the window.

He opened it.

The air rushed in.

It smelled of flowers.

It smelled of earth.

It smelled of freedom.

Thomas closed the window.

He walked to the door.

He pushed it open.

The stairs were gone.

The walls were gone.

The Spire was gone.

They were in a field.

The grass was high.

The sun was warm.

The air was clear.

Miles looked at Thomas.

Thomas looked at Miles.

They smiled.

They walked away.

They did not look back.

The Spire was a dream.

The curse was a lie.

The knowledge was a trap.

They were free.

They were small.

They were alive.

The wind blew.

The grass moved.

The sun shone.

It was enough.