The ink is cold. You know this because your fingers have turned the color of the parchment they rest upon. You are alone in the scriptorium. The air smells of oak gall and damp stone. It is the year of our Lord 1342, though you count the days by the chipping of the candle wax. You are a scribe. You are a scholar. You are a man who believes in the order of things. You believe that God is a geometer. He draws straight lines. He builds arches that hold. You believe this because it is the only way to survive the dark.

You look at the page. It is blank. It is waiting. You are afraid of what it will say. You have been afraid for three days.

Brother Thomas comes in. He is your superior. He is a heavy man. His robes are stained with wine. He does not look at you. He looks at the wall. He looks at the shadows. He moves like a man walking through deep water.

"The Abbot is ill," Thomas says. His voice is low. It is a whisper that cuts the air.

You do not answer. You hold the quill. The tip trembles. It is a small tremor. It is the tremor of a leaf in a wind you cannot feel.

"He is not well," Thomas says again. He steps closer. He smells of sweat and old paper. "We have sent for the priest. But the priest will not come. He says the bells are wrong. He says the bells ring in a language no one knows."

You look up. You look at Thomas. His eyes are wide. They are dry. There is no fear in them. There is only a kind of blankness. It is the blankness of a mirror. It is the blankness of a closed door.

"What do you want from me?" you ask. Your voice is steady. It is not your voice. It is the voice of the book you are writing.

Thomas leans in. He places a hand on your shoulder. The hand is cold. It is heavier than it should be.

"Write it down," he says. "Write what you see. Write what you hear. Do not stop. Do not sleep. If you stop, it will come into you. It will eat your mind. You must keep it on the page. You must keep it outside."

You nod. You lower your head. You dip the quill. The ink is black. It is deep. It is bottomless.

You begin to write.

The first words are easy. They are simple. They are factual. You describe the room. You describe the light. You describe the dust motes dancing in the beam from the high window. You write about the silence. You write about the weight of the silence. You write about the fear.

But the words change.

They do not change slowly. They change all at once. They shift. They twist. They become sharp. They become jagged. You write a sentence and it is not the sentence you intended. You write a word and it is not the word you knew. The letters seem to move on the page. They crawl. They coil. They form shapes that are not shapes.

You stop. You pull your hand back. The ink spreads. It blots. It forms a black star.

Thomas is watching. He is not moving. He is standing in the corner. He is watching you with those dry, empty eyes.

"Do not stop," he says.

I do not want to stop. I want to run. I want to leave this room. I want to leave this monastery. I want to go to my wife. I want to go to Margaret.

The thought hits you like a stone.

Margaret.

She is in the village. She is three miles away. She is waiting for you. You left her six months ago. You left her to come here. You left her to find the truth. You left her to save your soul. You think you have saved it. You think you have protected it.

You realize now that you have done the opposite. You have brought the darkness home. You have brought it to her.

You do not know how. You do not know why. But you know it is true. The ink on the page is not just ink. It is a tether. It is a rope. And the other end of the rope is tied around her neck.

You look at the blot. The black star is growing. It is reaching for the edges of the page. It is reaching for you.

You must write. You must break the tether. You must write the truth.

You dip the quill. You write.

*She is waiting for me. She is sitting by the fire. The fire is low. The shadows are high. She is looking at the door. She is listening for my footsteps. She is thinking of me. She is loving me. This love is a chain. This love is a cage. I am the key. I am the lock.*

The words hurt. They burn your tongue. They burn your mind.

Thomas is gone. The room is empty. The only sound is the scratch of the quill. The only light is the candle. The flame is blue. It is cold.

You write faster. Your hand is a blur. You are not writing anymore. You are bleeding. You are pouring your blood onto the page.

*I love her. I love her too much. My love is a disease. It is a plague. It is the thing that has come into the walls. It is the thing that has eaten the Abbot. It is the thing that is eating me.*

The candle flickers. The shadows lengthen. They reach for you. They wrap around your ankles. They climb your legs. They are cold. They are wet.

You stop. You breathe. The air is thick. It is heavy. It tastes of iron.

You look at the page. The words are gone. The page is blank again.

You pick up the quill. You dip it. You write one word.

*No.*

The room shakes. The stones groan. The window cracks. A shard of glass falls. It shatters on the floor.

You are not in the scriptorium. You are in a field. It is night. The moon is high. It is pale. It is cold.

You are kneeling in the mud. Your hands are in the dirt. You are digging. You are digging for something. You do not know what.

You hear a voice. It is a woman’s voice. It is soft. It is sad.

"Thomas?"

It is Margaret.

You stand up. You turn around. She is there. She is standing in the grass. She is wearing a white dress. It is stained with mud. Her hair is loose. It is dark. It is wet.

She looks at you. Her eyes are full of tears. She is not afraid. She is not angry. She is just sad.

"I knew you would come back," she says.

You look at her. You look at her face. You see the lines. You see the wrinkles. You see the age. You see the life you missed. You see the years that have passed.

You realize you have been gone for ten years.

You try to speak. You cannot. Your throat is closed. Your lungs are tight.

She steps closer. She touches your face. Her hand is warm. It is the only warm thing in the world.

"You did not save yourself," she says. "You did not save anyone. You only saved your guilt."

You nod. You cannot deny it.

"I tried," you say. Your voice is a rasp. It is a whisper.

"You failed," she says.

"Yes."

"That is all," she says. "That is all that matters."

She takes your hand. Her grip is strong. Her grip is final.

We walk. We walk into the dark. We walk away from the monastery. We walk away from the scriptorium. We walk away from the book.

The wind is cold. The stars are bright. They are indifferent. They are beautiful.

You hold her hand. You feel the pulse in it. It is strong. It is steady. It is a rhythm. It is a beat.

You are not a scholar. You are not a scribe. You are a man. You are a husband. You are a sinner. You are a fool.

And you are free.

The ink is dry. The page is blank. The truth is written in the mud. The truth is written in the blood. The truth is written in the silence.

You do not look back. You do not need to. The past is gone. The present is here. The future is unknown.

You walk. You walk. You walk.

The night is long. The road is long. The love is long.

It is enough.

It is enough.

It is enough.