The mud was thick. It sucked at our boots. It pulled at our ankles. It wanted to keep us.

We walked. We always walked. The road was not a road. It was a scar in the earth. It ran straight into the dark. The trees on either side were tall. They stood like sentinels. They did not move. They did not care. We moved. We were small. We were many.

"Keep up, boy," the Guard said. His voice was flat. It was the voice of a stone dropped in a well. No echo.

I did not speak. I looked at my hands. They were red. They were stiff. The cold was in my bones. It was a living thing. It chewed on my teeth.

Beside me walked Thomas. He was my shadow. He was my friend. He was everything. We had been together since we were small. We had shared bread. We had shared secrets. We had shared the fear.

Thomas looked at me. His eyes were bright. They were wet. He smiled. It was a small smile. It was a brave smile.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Good," he said.

I did not understand. I stopped walking. The line shifted. The Guard turned. His hand went to his belt.

"Move," he said.

I moved. I looked at Thomas. He kept walking. He did not look back. He was ahead of me. He was already far.

The camp was a square of wire. The wire was high. It was sharp. The sky was grey. It was the color of ash. We sat in the mud. We did not sleep. We waited.

The Master came. He wore a white coat. It was clean. It was too clean. It was a lie. He walked among us. He looked at us. He looked through us.

He stopped before Thomas. He leaned down. He smelled of soap. He smelled of death.

"You have a gift," the Master said. His voice was soft. It was the voice of a lullaby.

Thomas did not move. He looked straight ahead.

"Speak," the Master said.

"I am here," Thomas said.

"Yes," the Master said. "You are here."

He reached into his pocket. He took out a pen. It was black. It was long. He held it up. It caught the light. It was a mirror. It showed us our faces. It showed us our smallness.

"Sign here," the Master said.

Thomas took the pen. His hand did not shake. He signed. The ink was dark. It was blood.

I watched. I could not blink. The pen disappeared. The Master turned. He walked away. The white coat flowed behind him. It was a ghost.

Thomas turned to me. He was smiling again. It was a wide smile. It was a mad smile.

"I am free," he said.

"No," I said. "You are not."

"I am," he said. "I have given it. I have given it all."

He pointed to the ground. He pointed to the mud. He pointed to us.

"Look," he said. "It is not ours. It was never ours."

The Guard came. He took Thomas by the arm. He pulled him. Thomas did not fight. He let himself be pulled. He let himself be dragged.

"Wait," I said.

"Go," Thomas said.

"I will not leave you."

"You must."

"Why?"

"Because I am the door. You are the way. You must walk through. You must walk on."

The Guard pulled him into the dark. The door closed. The sound was a click. It was a small sound. It was the loudest sound I had ever heard.

I sat in the mud. The rain began. It was cold. It was sharp. It stung my face. I did not wipe it away. I let it fall. I let it wash.

Days passed. The days were the same. The mud was the same. The wire was the same. We ate. We slept. We waited.

I looked at my hands. They were still red. The red did not fade. It was part of me. It was my mark.

I looked at the others. They were hollow. They were shells. They had no light. I looked at my own face in the puddle. I saw the mark. I saw the red.

I was not me. I was the mark. I was the signature.

I stood up. I walked to the wire. I put my hand on it. It was cold. It was hard. It was alive.

"Let me out," I said to the wire.

The wire did not answer.

"Let me in," I said to the dark.

The dark did not answer.

I remembered the pen. I remembered the ink. I remembered the signature.

I closed my eyes. I opened my eyes.

I was still here.

I was not free. I was not bound. I was the space between. I was the silence after the click.

The Master came again. He walked among us. He did not stop. He did not look. He was gone.

The Guard came. He looked at me. He nodded.

"Walk," he said.

I walked. I walked alone. I walked into the dark. The mud sucked at my boots. It pulled at my ankles. It wanted to keep me.

I did not stop. I did not look back.

I walked until the road ended. I walked until the trees were gone. I walked until the sky was clear.

I stood on a hill. The air was thin. It was sharp. I breathed. I breathed deep.

I looked down. The camp was a dot. The road was a line. The world was small.

I looked at my hands. They were red. They were clean.

I smiled. It was a small smile. It was a brave smile.

I was not Thomas. I was not the Master. I was not the Guard.

I was the tale. I was the pale tale. I was the ink that dried. I was the page that remained.

The wind blew. It carried the scent of rain. It carried the scent of mud. It carried the scent of blood.

I closed my eyes. I listened.

I heard the click.

I heard the silence.

I heard the truth.

It was not redemption. It was not sacrifice. It was acceptance. It was the end of the beginning.

I opened my eyes. I looked at the horizon. It was pale. It was light. It was infinite.

I turned. I walked back. I walked toward the camp. I walked toward the mud. I walked toward the wire.

I walked toward the mark.

I was the mark.

I was the tale.

I was the end.