The ink is wet. It dries slow in this room. You are alone. The chair creaks. You lean back. The wood groans. It knows your weight. It has known it for years. You are old here. Or perhaps you are young. It does not matter. The light is gray. It comes through the glass. It hits the desk. You see the dust. It floats. It does not fall.

You are in the village. It is small. The houses lean. They look tired. The air is thick. It smells of damp. It smells of stone. You are the Keeper. That is your name. Not your name. Your role. You keep the marks. The signs. The words. They are carved. They are deep. They are in the stone. They are in the wall. You touch them. Your fingers are rough. They are cold.

You have always been here. Or so you think. You remember the start. You remember the end. They are the same. You do not know which is first. It does not matter. You write. You must write. The page is white. It is blank. It waits. You dip the pen. The nib is sharp. It cuts the air. You write a word. It is short. It is hard. It is true.

You look at the wall. The marks are there. They are old. They are deep. They are yours. You made them. You made them long ago. You do not remember when. You remember the feeling. The pain. The release. You made them to stop. To stop the noise. The noise is loud. It is in your head. It is in the walls. It is in the air. You made the marks to hold it. To bind it. To keep it.

You look at the pen. It is black. It is dry. You dip it again. You write. The words come slow. They come hard. They are heavy. They are real. You are tired. Your eyes are dry. You blink. The light shifts. The shadows move. They dance. They play. They are not real. You are real. The desk is real. The pen is real.

You think of the village. They are outside. They are quiet. They do not come in. They do not speak. They watch. They wait. They fear you. They love you. They are afraid. They are close. They are far. You are their keeper. You are their burden. You are their sin. You are their grace.

You write more. The page fills. The words crowd. They push. They fight. They want out. You hold them. You hold them tight. You do not let go. You cannot let go. If you let go, they will run. If they run, they will hurt. If they hurt, you will break. You will break. You will die. You will be gone. You will be nothing.

You look at the wall again. The marks are there. They are deep. They are dark. They are old. You trace them. Your finger follows the line. It is smooth. It is cold. It is hard. You feel the shape. You feel the depth. You feel the time. It is long. It is endless. It is now.

You remember a face. It is yours. It is young. It is full. It is bright. It is alive. It was before. It was before the marks. It was before the silence. It was before the pain. You try to hold it. You try to keep it. You fail. It fades. It goes. It is gone. It is lost. It is dead.

You are not young. You are not bright. You are not alive. You are old. You are gray. You are tired. You are here. You are the Keeper. You keep the marks. You keep the silence. You keep the pain. You keep the past. You keep the future. You keep the present. You keep it all. You hold it. You hold it tight.

You write. The words are hard. They are sharp. They cut. They bleed. You do not stop. You cannot stop. You must write. You must record. You must remember. You must not forget. If you forget, you are lost. If you are lost, you are free. If you are free, you are gone. You do not want to go. You want to stay. You want to be. You want to matter. You want to count.

You look at the door. It is closed. It is locked. It is heavy. It is solid. It keeps you in. It keeps them out. It keeps the world away. It keeps the noise away. It keeps the pain away. It keeps the truth away. You do not want the truth. You want the lie. You want the comfort. You want the safety. You want the dark.

The light changes. It is darker now. The shadows grow. They reach. They touch. They wrap. They hold. You do not move. You do not fight. You do not struggle. You sit. You breathe. You write. The pen moves. The ink flows. The words appear. They are there. They are real. They are true.

You think of the community. They are outside. They are waiting. They are watching. They are hoping. They are praying. They are fearing. They are loving. They are hating. They are both. They are one. You are one. You are them. They are you. You are the mark. You are the wall. You are the keeper. You are the kept. You are the pain. You are the cure. You are the disease. You are the doctor. You are the patient. You are the end.

You look at the page. It is full. The words are done. The sentence is complete. The story is over. The mark is made. The pain is held. The silence is kept. You set the pen down. It rests. It is still. It is quiet. You let go of it. Your hand is free. Your mind is free. Your soul is free.

You stand up. The chair creaks. It is empty. It is light. It is done. You walk to the wall. The marks are there. They are deep. They are dark. They are old. You touch them. They are warm now. They are alive. They are yours. They are not yours. They are the village. They are the people. They are the past. They are the present. They are the future. They are the loop. They are the cycle. They are the wheel. They are the turn.

You look at your hand. It is open. It is empty. It is clean. You have no pen. You have no ink. You have no page. You have no words. You have no marks. You have no pain. You have no silence. You have no keeper. You have no kept. You have no self. You have no other. You have no time. You have no space. You have no name. You have no face. You have no life. You have no death.

You look at the door. It is open. It is wide. It is bright. The light comes in. It is white. It is pure. It is new. You step into it. You step out. You step away. You step back. You step in. You step out. You step away. You step back. You step in. You step out. You step away.

You are here. You are the Keeper. The chair creaks. You lean back. The wood groans. It knows your weight. It has known it for years. You are old here. Or perhaps you are young. It does not matter. The light is gray. It comes through the glass. It hits the desk. You see the dust. It floats. It does not fall.

The ink is wet. It dries slow in this room. You are alone. The chair creaks. You lean back. The wood groans. It knows your weight. It has known it for years. You are old here. Or perhaps you are young. It does not matter. The light is gray. It comes through the glass. It hits the desk. You see the dust. It floats. It does not fall.