The door to the cellar was heavy. It smelled of damp stone and old iron. I pulled it open. The hinges screamed.

My father stood in the dark. He did not turn around. He held a bowl. It was full of mud. Thick, black, wet mud. He was stirring it. The spoon clinked against the ceramic. A soft, rhythmic sound. Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Are you here?" I asked. My voice sounded thin. It echoed off the walls.

He stopped stirring. He turned his head. Just slightly. His eyes were closed. He looked tired. He looked old.

"I am here," he said.

I walked down the stairs. My boots slipped on the wet stones. The air was cold. It bit my nose. It bit my cheeks. I felt a shiver run down my spine. I pulled my coat tighter. It was too thin for this place.

"Father," I said. "The doctor is coming. He says we must leave. Today."

My father did not answer. He picked up the spoon again. He began to stir. Tick. Tick. Tick.

I looked at the bowl. The mud was moving. It looked like smoke. It looked like breath. I wanted to look away. I could not. I was trapped by the sight of it.

"What is it?" I whispered.

"Food," he said.

It was not food. It was dirt. It was the earth from the garden. I knew that. I had seen him digging it up. I had seen him carrying the buckets. I had seen the blood on his hands. I had told him to stop. I had begged him. He had only shaken his head.

He said it was necessary. He said it was for me. He said I was sick. He said I was dying.

I was not dying. I was alive. I was hungry. I was afraid. I was tired of the silence in the house. I was tired of the way my mother looked at me. She looked at me with pity. She looked at me like I was a ghost.

"Leave it," I said. I pointed to the bowl. "Throw it away."

My father set the spoon down. He looked at me. His eyes were open now. They were pale. They were empty.

"You do not understand," he said.

"I understand," I said. "I am not an animal. I will not eat dirt."

"It is not dirt," he said. "It is memory. It is the land. It is where we belong."

I laughed. It was a dry, harsh sound. It made me feel sick.

"We belong in the city," I said. "We belong in the future. Not here. Not in this hole."

My father’s face hardened. He looked at the bowl. He looked at me. He reached out. He touched my cheek. His hand was cold. His fingers were stiff.

"Come," he said. "Sit."

I did not sit. I backed away. I climbed the stairs. I ran. I ran into the kitchen. The kitchen was bright. The sun was shining through the window. It was a warm, yellow light. It felt like a lie.

My mother was at the table. She was knitting. She did not look up.

"Did you see him?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. I was breathing hard. My heart was pounding in my chest. "He was in the cellar. He had a bowl of mud."

My mother stopped knitting. Her hands hung in her lap.

"He is making the broth," she said.

"What broth?" I asked.

"The one for you. The one to make you well."

I felt a cold knot in my stomach. "What is in it?"

She did not answer. She picked up her knitting. She continued to work. The needles clicked. Click. Click. Click.

I looked out the window. The garden was empty. The soil was turned over. It was black and fresh. It looked hungry.

I went to the window. I looked down at the cellar door. It was closed. I could hear the faint sound of the spoon. Tick. Tick. Tick.

I closed my eyes. I tried to forget. I tried to imagine we were leaving. I tried to imagine the train. I tried to imagine the city. I tried to imagine a life without the mud.

But the mud was in my head. The mud was in my blood.

I went to the cellar again. I had to know. I had to see.

The door was open. My father was gone. The bowl was on the stone table. The mud was still there. It was still moving.

I picked up the bowl. It was heavy. It was warm. I brought it to my lips. I could smell it. It smelled of rain. It smelled of decay. It smelled of my father.

I drank.

It tasted of nothing. It tasted of everything. It filled my mouth. It filled my throat. I choked. I coughed. I spat it out. It hit the floor. It sizzled. It disappeared into the cracks in the stone.

I fell to my knees. I wept. I cried until I had no tears left. I cried for the life I had lost. I cried for the life I was about to lose. I cried for my father.

He came down the stairs. He was holding a coat. A heavy, dark coat.

"Put this on," he said.

I did not move. I sat on the floor. I was covered in mud. I was covered in shame.

He knelt down. He brushed the dirt from my face. He used his thumb. He wiped it away gently.

"It is time," he said.

I looked at him. I saw the truth in his eyes. It was not madness. It was love. It was a desperate, broken, obsessive love. He was trying to save me. He was trying to keep me. He was trying to tie me to the earth so I would not float away.

I understood. I understood then.

I stood up. I put on the coat. It was heavy. It smelled of him.

We walked out of the house. The sun was setting. The sky was red. The air was cold.

We walked to the train station. The train was waiting. It was a long, black snake. It hissed and steamed.

I looked at my father. He held my hand. His grip was tight. He did not let go.

We boarded the train. I sat by the window. I watched the station slip away. I watched the trees. I watched the fields. They blurred. They became a smear of green and brown.

I looked at my hands. There was a spot of mud on my sleeve. It was dry now. It was gray.

I rubbed at it. I could not get it off.

The train moved. It picked up speed. The world rushed past. I was leaving. I was escaping.

But I carried the mud with me. It was in my bones. It was in my mind.

I looked at my father. He was asleep. His head rested against the glass. His face was peaceful.

I felt a terrible sadness. I felt a terrible freedom.

I knew I would never be clean again. I knew I would always be hungry. I knew I would always be looking for the taste of the earth.

The train screamed. It roared. It swallowed the night.

I closed my eyes. I listened to the rhythm of the wheels. Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

It sounded like a spoon hitting a bowl.

It sounded like a heartbeat.

I was home. I was lost.

The train carried me into the dark. I did not open my eyes. I did not want to see the city. I did not want to see the future. I wanted to stay in the cellar. I wanted to stay in the mud.

I wanted to be with him.

But I was alone.

I was alone with the taste of the earth.

I was alone with the weight of it.

I was alone with the truth.

The mud was real. The love was real. The curse was real.

I opened my eyes. The window was black. I saw my reflection. I saw my face. It was pale. It was shadowed.

I touched my cheek. I felt the smoothness of the skin. I felt the absence of the dirt.

But I knew it was there.

I knew it was inside.

I sat back. I closed my eyes. I waited for the city to come.

I waited for the end of the journey.

I waited for the beginning of my life.

The train moved on.

The mud remained.