The banquet hall smelled of yeast and old money.

We drank.

We ate.

The candles were thick beeswax tapers. They hissed.

My husband, Julian, sat at the head of the table. He wore a suit of charcoal wool. It fit him well. It fit me poorly. I wore a dress of pale blue silk. It clung to my shoulders. It did not cling to my heart. My heart was elsewhere.

He raised his glass.

"To the Faculty."

He smiled.

It was a thin smile.

A political smile.

I drank.

The wine was red. It stained the rim of my glass. I looked at the stain. It looked like a drop of blood. I wiped it away with my napkin.

The napkin was white.

It became pink.

I balled it up.

I threw it into my lap.

The room was full of scholars. Men and women. They spoke in low tones. They spoke of tenure. They spoke of grants. They spoke of legacy. They did not speak of the path.

I knew the path.

Everyone did.

It was a trail of gravel and moss. It ran along the edge of the university grounds. It ran into the woods. It was not on the map. Or rather, it was on the map, but it was faint. A ghost line. A whisper of a route.

I had walked it for twenty years.

I had walked it before Julian. I had walked it after Julian. I had walked it with him. We had walked it together. We had promised each other that the path was the only thing that mattered. That the work was the only thing that mattered. That the institution was just a house. A container. A box for the work.

We were wrong.

The box had teeth.

Julian looked at me.

He saw the ball of napkin in my lap. He did not ask what it was. He never asked. He trusted me. That was the worst part. He trusted me. He believed I was part of the structure. He believed I was safe.

He did not know I was leaving.

Or perhaps he did.

Perhaps he knew and said nothing.

That is the cruelty of the system. It does not shout. It does not scream. It simply absorbs. It takes your shape. It wears your face. It speaks with your voice.

I felt the wine burn.

It burned my throat.

It burned my chest.

I stood up.

The room went quiet.

Chairs scraped on stone.

Julian’s hand stopped in the air.

His glass hung suspended.

A drop of wine fell from the rim.

It hit the table.

It made a small, dark star.

I walked to the door.

My heels clicked on the floor.

Click. Click. Click.

Each click was a step away.

Each step was a stone thrown into a still pond.

The ripples spread.

They hit the edges of the table. They hit the faces of the professors. They hit the candles. The flames flickered.

I opened the door.

The night air hit me.

It was cold.

It was wet.

It smelled of pine and rot.

I stepped out.

The door closed behind me.

The latch clicked.

A final period.

I was alone.

The grounds were vast.

The trees were tall.

They stood like sentinels. They stood like judges.

I looked for the path.

I found it.

It was there.

It was always there.

But it looked different now.

The gravel was gone.

The moss was gone.

The ground was bare.

It was a strip of packed earth.

It was pale.

It was smooth.

It was worn.

It had been walked so many times that the surface had vanished. The texture had been erased. It was a blank line. A white line.

I knelt.

I touched the earth.

It was cold.

It was hard.

It was dead.

I remembered the first time I walked this path.

I was young.

I was full of questions.

I thought the path would lead to an answer.

I was wrong.

The path leads to nowhere.

The path is the nowhere.

I stood up.

My knees ached.

My back ached.

I was tired.

I was so tired.

I looked at the trees.

They were black shapes against the gray sky.

They were watching me.

They knew.

They knew I had come to the end.

I knew I had come to the end.

The path was worn away.

Not by time.

Not by weather.

By me.

By my feet.

By my devotion.

I had worn it down to nothing.

I had worn away the only thing that separated me from the void.

I had worn away the only thing that gave me shape.

And now I was shapeless.

And now I was free.

Freedom is a heavy thing.

It is a stone in the pocket.

It is a weight on the chest.

It is the silence after the scream.

I looked back at the building.

The lights were on.

I could see Julian in the window.

He was standing there.

He was looking at me.

He did not wave.

He did not call out.

He just watched.

He accepted it.

He had accepted it long ago.

He had known that the system would take me.

He had known that I would give myself to it.

He had known that I would walk the path until it disappeared.

He had known that I would lose myself in the work.

He had known that I would lose myself in the path.

And he had stayed.

He had stayed because he loved me.

He had stayed because he was part of the structure.

He had stayed because he could not leave.

He was the anchor.

I was the ship.

And the ship was sinking.

Not into the water.

Into the ground.

Into the dirt.

Into the silence.

I turned away.

I started to walk.

I walked onto the pale path.

My feet sank into the soft earth.

It felt like stepping into a grave.

It felt like stepping into a womb.

I walked faster.

The trees rushed past.

The darkness closed in.

I could not see the path anymore.

I could only feel it.

I felt it under my feet.

It was smooth.

It was bare.

It was gone.

I was walking on air.

I was walking on nothing.

I was free.

The cold bit into my skin.

It bit into my bones.

I shivered.

I did not stop.

I could not stop.

The path was gone.

I was the path.

I was the wear.

I was the erosion.

I was the silence.

I walked into the woods.

I walked into the night.

I walked into the dark.

And I did not look back.

I did not look back.

I did not look back.

The lights in the window stayed on.

They stayed on.

They stayed on.

Until the dawn.

Until the light.

Until the end.

I am here.

I am gone.

I am the pale path.

I am the wear.

I am the silence.

I am the freedom.

It is a terrible freedom.

It is a beautiful freedom.

It is the only freedom.

I walk.

I walk.

I walk.

The gravel is gone.

The moss is gone.

The earth is bare.

The earth is pale.

The earth is me.

I am the path.

The path is me.

We are one.

We are worn.

We are gone.

We are free.

The night is deep.

The stars are cold.

They look down.

They judge.

They do not care.

They are far away.

They are eternal.

I am here.

I am small.

I am mortal.

I am the wear.

I am the silence.

I am the end.

I walk.

The ground is soft.

The ground is hard.

The ground is dead.

The ground is alive.

I do not know.

I do not care.

I am free.

I am lost.

I am found.

I am nothing.

I am everything.

I am the pale path.

I am the wear.

I am the silence.

I am the freedom.

I walk.

I walk.

I walk.

The dark swallows me.

The dark eats me.

The dark is full.

The dark is empty.

I am in the dark.

I am out of the dark.

I am the dark.

I am the light.

I am the path.

The path is worn.

The path is gone.

I am gone.

I am free.

The night ends.

The dawn comes.

The light touches the trees.

The light touches the ground.

The light touches the pale path.

The path is there.

It is faint.

It is a ghost.

It is a memory.

It is a scar.

It is a mark.

It is me.

I am the mark.

I am the scar.

I am the memory.

I am the ghost.

I am the light.

I am the dark.

I am the path.

The path is worn.

The path is gone.

I am gone.

I am free.

The sun rises.

The sun burns.

The sun heals.

The sun destroys.

I am in the sun.

I am in the light.

I am in the world.

I am in the silence.

I am in the freedom.

I am the pale path.

I am the wear.

I am the end.

I am the beginning.

I am nothing.

I am everything.

I am here.

I am gone.

I am free.