The road is broken.

You walk it.

Mud clings to your boots.

It is wet.

It is cold.

The sky is a low, grey lid.

You are walking.

You have been walking for three days.

Your brother is gone.

His name was Thomas.

He is a prisoner.

He is a sinner.

You are not.

Or so you tell yourself.

You carry nothing but a small, iron box.

It is heavy.

It is cold.

It is the only thing that matters.

The village is ahead.

Blackwood.

It sits in the valley.

It looks like a toothless jaw.

The houses are stone.

They are old.

They are dirty.

Smoke rises from the chimneys.

It drifts into the grey.

You do not stop.

You cannot stop.

If you stop, you will remember.

You will remember the night they took him.

You will remember the sound of the chains.

You will remember his face.

It was pale.

It was calm.

He did not beg.

That is what haunts you.

He did not beg.

The gate is closed.

It is high.

It is iron.

It is rusted.

You knock.

No one comes.

You knock again.

The sound is dull.

It is dead.

A shadow moves in the window above.

It watches you.

You wait.

The wind blows.

It bites your cheeks.

The gate creaks open.

A hand appears.

It is thin.

It is old.

It points to the ground.

You understand.

You must go around.

You walk the perimeter.

The walls are thick.

They are stained with time.

They are stained with blood.

You reach the side door.

It is ajar.

You push it.

It groans.

You step inside.

The air is thick.

It smells of damp stone.

It smells of rot.

It smells of fear.

You are in the courtyard.

There is a well.

The water is black.

You look down.

You see your reflection.

It is a ghost.

It is you.

You are a ghost.

You walk forward.

The shadows are long.

They stretch out like fingers.

They try to grab you.

You shake them off.

You find the stairs.

They are steep.

They are dark.

You climb.

Your legs burn.

Your lungs ache.

You reach the top.

The door is open.

Light spills out.

It is weak.

It is yellow.

You step through.

You are in the hall.

It is long.

It is empty.

There are no people.

There are no guards.

There is only the keeper.

He sits in a chair.

He is an old man.

His face is a map of lines.

His eyes are closed.

He is sleeping.

Or he is dead.

You do not know.

You approach him.

You hold the iron box.

You place it on the table.

You stand back.

You wait.

The old man does not move.

The silence is loud.

It presses against your ears.

You hear your own heart.

It beats fast.

It beats hard.

It is a drum.

It is a warning.

Then, the old man moves.

His fingers twitch.

His eyes open.

They are milky.

They are blind.

He looks at you.

He does not see you.

He sees the past.

He sees the future.

He sees the truth.

He reaches out.

His hand is cold.

He touches the iron box.

He does not open it.

He knows what is inside.

He knows what you have done.

He knows what you have lost.

He speaks.

His voice is like dry leaves.

"Put it down."

You do not move.

"I cannot."

You say.

"Put it down."

He says again.

"I will not."

You say.

Your voice is hard.

Your voice is steel.

"You are a fool," he says.

"You think you are saving him."

"I am saving my soul," you say.

"Your soul is ash," he says.

"You cannot burn what is already dead."

You feel a shock.

It runs through you.

It is ice.

It is fire.

You look at the box.

It is still.

It is heavy.

It is a weight.

It is a chain.

You realize it.

You realize the truth.

The box is not for Thomas.

The box is for you.

You made it.

You filled it with his ashes.

You took them from the pyre.

You kept them.

You thought if you kept them, he was alive.

You thought if you carried them, you were close.

You were wrong.

You were wrong for so long.

The box is a tomb.

You are the prisoner.

The old man watches you.

He does not judge.

He does not hate.

He waits.

He is the witness.

He has seen many like you.

He has seen many carry their dead.

He knows the end of the road.

You look at the box.

You see your brother’s face in the iron.

It is not angry.

It is not sad.

It is empty.

It is free.

You reach out.

Your hand shakes.

Your fingers touch the latch.

It is cold.

It is hard.

You open it.

The lid lifts.

There is no smoke.

There is no fire.

There is only dust.

Fine, grey dust.

It settles on the table.

It settles on your hands.

It is light.

It is nothing.

You look at the dust.

You feel a pull.

It is in your chest.

It is in your bones.

You want to hold it.

You want to keep it.

You want to carry it back to the road.

You want to carry it back to the world.

But you do not.

You let go.

You drop your hand.

The dust stays.

It is still.

It is done.

The weight is gone.

The chain is broken.

You look at the old man.

He is smiling.

It is a small smile.

It is a sad smile.

It is a kind smile.

He closes his eyes.

He goes back to sleep.

Or he goes back to death.

You do not care.

You turn around.

You walk to the door.

The light is brighter now.

The sun is rising.

It is a pale, white sun.

It is a new sun.

You step outside.

The air is clean.

It smells of earth.

It smells of rain.

It smells of life.

You look at the village.

It is the same.

The houses are stone.

The smoke is rising.

But it looks different.

It looks lighter.

It looks smaller.

You are not part of it.

You are not a prisoner.

You are not a sinner.

You are just a man.

You are just a brother.

You walk to the gate.

The gate is open.

No one is there.

You walk out.

You walk to the road.

The road is broken.

But you can see the end of it.

You walk.

Your boots are clean.

The mud is gone.

The mud has washed away.

You walk faster.

You do not look back.

You do not look down.

You look forward.

The sun is warmer.

It touches your face.

It touches your eyes.

You close them.

You feel the heat.

You feel the light.

You feel the air.

You feel the earth.

You feel alive.

It is a sharp pain.

It is a sweet pain.

It is a real pain.

You open your eyes.

The road is long.

The road is straight.

The road is clear.

You walk.

You walk.

You walk.

The wind blows.

It does not bite.

It sings.

It sings a low song.

It sings a sad song.

It sings a free song.

You hum along.

You do not know the words.

You do not need the words.

The melody is enough.

The rhythm is enough.

Your heart beats.

It is slow.

It is steady.

It is strong.

You are not empty.

You are full.

You are full of space.

You are full of light.

You are full of peace.

Thomas is gone.

You are here.

That is enough.

That is everything.

You keep walking.

The sun rises higher.

The shadows shorten.

The world wakes up.

The birds sing.

The trees sway.

The air moves.

You move with it.

You are part of it.

You are not apart.

You are not alone.

You are not guilty.

You are free.

The road stretches out.

It goes on.

It goes on.

It goes on.

You do not know where it leads.

You do not care.

You are walking.

That is all that matters.

You are walking.

You are free.

The dust is gone.

The box is gone.

The prison is gone.

You are here.

You are now.

You are alive.

And that is a terrible, beautiful thing.

You keep walking.

The sun is bright.

The sky is blue.

The world is wide.

You are small.

You are free.

You are home.