The pot was gold. Not gilded. Not painted. Gold.

I carried it. My hands shook. The road was long. The rain was cold.

We were walking to the Abbey. The Abbey was old. The stones were wet. The air smelled of rot. It smelled of iron. It smelled of the earth opening.

I am a clerk. I write numbers. I count grain. I sign ledgers. I am no one. But the pot was mine. Or so I thought.

The pot was heavy. It sat in my arms like a child. Like a god. The gold was warm. It pulsed. I could feel it beat against my ribs. Thump. Thump. Thump.

My brother, Thomas, walked behind me. He was sick. His cough was a wet rasp. It shook his whole body. He looked pale. He looked thin. He looked like a ghost who hadn't finished leaving.

"Put it down," he said. His voice was a whisper. A dry leaf skittering.

"Never," I said. I kept walking. The mud sucked at my boots. Squeak. Slurp.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because it is gold," I said. "Because we are poor. Because the winter is coming. Because the lord will take our land if we do not pay."

Thomas stopped. I stopped. The rain fell on us. It was relentless. It was a curtain. It hid us from the world.

"David," he said. My name was a stone in his mouth. "Look at me."

I looked. His eyes were fever-bright. They were the color of the pot. They were the color of madness.

"It is not gold," he said.

I laughed. A short, sharp bark. "You are delirious. The fire is in your blood. But I have seen it. I have held it. It is gold."

"It is a trap," he said. "It is a mouth. It is hungry."

I turned on him. My face was red. My chest heaved. "You are jealous. You always were. You wanted the land. You wanted the title. I am the heir. I am the man who works. I am the man who counts. You are the man who coughs."

The words hung in the air. They were sharp. They were cruel. I felt a spike of pride. It was cold. It was hard. It was like the gold.

Thomas did not argue. He just watched me. He watched me with a pity that cut deeper than any sword. He turned and walked into the mist. I heard his cough. It was worse now. A rattle. A snap.

I kept walking. I did not look back. I could not. If I looked, I might drop it. If I dropped it, I might lose it.

The Abbey loomed ahead. It was a black shape. It was a tooth. It bit into the gray sky. The windows were dark. They were eyes. They were watching.

The doors were massive. Oak. Iron. Rusted. They stood ajar. A draft came out. It was cold. It was ancient. It smelled of dust and old prayers.

I stepped inside. The silence was heavy. It pressed on my ears. It pressed on my mind.

The nave was empty. There were no pews. There were no altars. There were only the stones. The floor was cracked. Vines had grown through the cracks. Green fingers. They reached up. They wanted to touch the gold.

I placed the pot on the ground. It made a dull thud. The sound echoed. It went up and up into the dark. It sounded like a heart beating.

I sat on the cold stone. I wrapped my arms around my knees. I waited.

What was I waiting for?

I was waiting for justice.

I was waiting for the world to see me. I was waiting for the world to say, *Yes, David. You are worthy. You are the one who kept the faith. You are the one who carried the burden.*

I was waiting for the gold to shine.

But it did not shine. It just sat there. Dark. Dull. Cold.

Hours passed. The rain continued. It drummed on the broken roof. It fell in sheets. It pooled on the floor. It reached my feet. It was icy. It burned.

My back ached. My head throbbed. The pot was heavy. It was always heavy.

I remembered my mother. She used to sing. She sang while she washed clothes. Her voice was soft. It was like water. It was like wind. She sang about a king. A king who had gold. A king who had power. A king who had lost his soul.

*The gold is a cage,* she sang. *The gold is a chain. It binds the hand. It binds the heart. It binds the breath.*

I had forgotten that song. I had forgotten the warning. I had forgotten that I was a clerk. I had forgotten that I was small.

I looked at the pot. I reached out. My fingers brushed the rim.

It was cold.

It was not warm anymore. The pulse was gone. The beat was gone.

I felt a chill. It was not from the rain. It was from inside. It was a hollow feeling. A void.

I lifted the pot. It was lighter now. Suspiciously lighter.

I tilted it. I poured it into my hand.

Nothing came out.

No gold. No coins. No dust.

My hand was empty.

I shook the pot. I turned it over. I tapped it.

It was hollow.

It was just clay.

It was a piece of broken pottery. A shard. A fragment. I had found it in the ditch. I had picked it up. I had imagined it was gold. I had carried it for miles. I had fought for it. I had abandoned my brother for it.

I looked at my hands. They were stained. Brown. Mud. Dirt.

I had been carrying dirt.

I had been carrying nothing.

The tragedy was not that I had lost the gold. The tragedy was that I had never had it.

The tragedy was that I had believed I did.

I stood up. My legs were numb. They felt like wood. Like dead branches.

I walked to the door. I stepped outside. The rain had stopped. The mist was thick. It swallowed everything. It swallowed the Abbey. It swallowed me.

I walked back to the road. I walked back to the life I had left behind. I walked back to the ledger. I walked back to the numbers.

I did not look for Thomas. I knew he was gone. I knew he was dead. I knew his cough had finally stopped.

I walked on. I walked until the sun came up. The light was gray. It was weak. It did not warm me.

I reached the village. The houses were dark. The people were asleep. Or dead. Who was to say?

I went to my room. I sat at my desk. I opened the ledger. I picked up the quill.

I began to write.

I wrote the numbers. I counted the grain. I signed the papers.

I was a good clerk. I was precise. I was accurate. I was empty.

I wrote until my hand cramped. I wrote until the ink ran dry. I wrote until the words blurred.

I closed the book. I put the quill down.

I looked at the window. The sky was bright now. It was white. It was blinding.

I felt a surge of anger. It was hot. It was bright.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to break the glass. I wanted to tear the walls down.

I wanted the world to be gold. I wanted the world to be solid. I wanted the world to be real.

But the world was clay. The world was mud. The world was a lie.

And I was the one who had believed it.

I sat in the silence. The silence was loud. It roared. It screamed. It begged.

I closed my eyes. I waited for the darkness. I waited for the end.

But the end did not come.

The sun rose. The day began. The world turned.

I was still here. I was still small. I was still a clerk.

I was still David.

I picked up the quill again. I began to write.

The numbers flowed. They were black. They were sharp. They were true.

I wrote the truth. I wrote the lie. I wrote the gold. I wrote the dirt.

I wrote and I wrote.

I wrote until I could not write anymore.

I wrote until I was nothing.