The roof is gone.

You stand in the rain. The water is cold. It soaks your tunic. You are wet. You are tired. You are here.

The house is a skeleton. The beams are black. They look like bones. The floor is dust. The walls are mud. The mud is red. It is not rain. It is blood. Or rust. You do not know. You do not care.

You walk in. Your boots make a sound. Crack. Snap. The wood gives way. You step over the broken planks. You look for something. You do not know what. You know it is here. It must be here.

You find the room. The great hall. It is open to the sky. The clouds are low. They touch the beams. The air smells of iron. It smells of old iron. It smells of your sin.

You sit on the floor. The floor is hard. It is cold. You put your hands in your lap. Your hands are still. They have been still for a long time.

"Is it done?"

The voice comes from the dark. It is a child's voice. It is not a child. It is a ghost. It is a memory. It is you, but younger. It is you, but free.

"No," you say. Your voice is dry. It sounds like sand.

"Then why do you sit?"

"I am waiting."

"For what?"

"For the end."

The ghost laughs. It is a dry laugh. It sounds like leaves scraping on stone. "The end is here. It has been here for years. You are the end. You are the ruin."

You look up. The rain falls on the beams. The beams creak. They groan. They want to fall. You want them to fall. You want to fall with them.

"Did we win?" you ask.

"We burned it all," the ghost says. "We burned the court. We burned the judge. We burned the law. We are free."

"Are we?"

"Look at you."

You look at your hands. They are black. The black is in the lines of your palms. The black is under your nails. The black is in your blood. You cannot wash it out. You have washed it for years. You have used soap. You have used lye. You have used your own tears. It stays.

"I killed them," you say.

"You killed the cage," the ghost says. "The bird is dead. You killed the bird."

The ghost points to the corner. There is a shape there. It is small. It is white. It is a bird. It is a sparrow. It is dead. It lies on its side. Its wings are broken. Its beak is open. It is not singing. It is never singing.

You stand up. Your legs are stiff. You walk to the bird. You kneel. The mud stains your knees. You reach for the bird. Your hand trembles. You do not want to touch it. You want to hold it. You want to fix it.

You pick it up. It is light. It is so light. It weighs nothing. It is lighter than air. It is lighter than your guilt.

"You are the judge," the ghost says.

"No," you say. "I am the prisoner."

"No. You are the judge. You judged them. You judged yourself. You sentenced them to fire. You sentenced yourself to ash."

The house groans. A beam falls. It crashes into the mud. Dust rises. It fills the air. You cough. Your eyes water. You do not let go of the bird.

"I am guilty," you say.

"You are innocent," the ghost says.

"Nothing is innocent."

"Everything is broken. That is all. Nothing is evil. Nothing is good. It is only broken."

You hold the bird tighter. It is cold. It is so cold. It is colder than the rain. It is colder than the grave.

"I cannot forgive myself," you say.

"You do not need to forgive yourself. You need to let go. The bird is dead. The judge is dead. The house is dead. What is left?"

"Nothing."

"Then why do you hold it?"

You look at the bird. You look at your hands. The black is still there. The black is your shadow. The black is your truth. You cannot leave it. You cannot die with it. You must live with it.

You stand up. You walk to the door. The door is a frame. It has no wood. It is just two posts. They lean against each other. They are broken. They are tired. They are like you.

You walk out. The rain is still falling. It is heavy. It is soft. It washes the mud from your boots. It washes the dust from your hair. It does not wash the black from your hands. It will not wash the black from your soul.

You walk down the hill. The hill is steep. The grass is green. It is wet. It is bright. It is alive. You walk through it. Your boots sink into the mud. You do not look back. The house is behind you. It is falling. You can hear it. The sound is like a sigh. The sound is like a prayer. The sound is like a name.

You walk on. The path is narrow. It winds through the trees. The trees are bare. They have no leaves. They are like you. They are empty. They are open. They are waiting for the spring. They are waiting for the end.

You find the river. The river is wide. The water is dark. It moves slowly. It moves steadily. It does not stop. It does not turn back. It goes to the sea. It goes to the end.

You stand on the bank. You look at the water. You look at your reflection. Your face is old. Your face is tired. Your face is full of rain. You do not recognize it. You do not know who it is. You do not care.

You look at the bird in your hand. You look at the water. You make a decision. It is not a big decision. It is a small decision. It is the only decision.

You open your hand.

The bird falls.

It falls into the water.

The water takes it.

The water is deep. The water is dark. The bird sinks. It does not float. It does not fly. It sinks. It is gone.

You stand there. Your hand is empty. Your hand is still black. The black is still there. But your hand is empty. The weight is gone. The cold is gone. The guilt is gone.

It is not gone. It is just quiet. It is just still. It is just yours.

You breathe in. The air is cold. It is clean. It smells of rain. It smells of earth. It smells of life.

You breathe out. The air is warm. It is yours. It is free.

You turn away from the river. You walk up the hill. The rain is stopping. The clouds are breaking. A ray of sun comes through. It is thin. It is weak. It is pale. It touches the grass. It touches your face. It is warm. It is real.

You walk to the top of the hill. The house is below you. You can see it. It is a shadow. It is a stain. It is a scar. It is part of the land. It is part of the story. It is part of you.

You do not look at it. You look at the horizon. The horizon is far. It is wide. It is empty. It is full.

You walk on. You do not run. You do not stop. You walk. Your steps are slow. Your steps are sure. Your steps are yours.

The sun is rising. The light is growing. The world is waking. The birds are singing. They are not sparrows. They are other birds. They are free. They are alive. They are singing.

You listen. You hear the song. It is not for you. It is for them. It is for the world. It is for the morning.

You close your eyes. You feel the sun on your face. You feel the wind in your hair. You feel the rain on your skin. You feel the earth under your feet. You feel the life in your body. It is strong. It is steady. It is yours.

You open your eyes. You see the road. The road is long. The road is hard. The road is yours.

You take the first step. You take the second step. You take the third step.

You walk on.

The house is gone. The judge is gone. The bird is gone. You are here. You are alone. You are free.

The rain is over. The sun is out. The world is bright.

You walk on.