The frost bites the leather of your boots.

You are alone in the valley.

The mist clings to the heather like a ghost.

You hunt the coat.

You have hunted it for years.

The letters are in your satchel.

They are wet.

The ink bleeds.

You write to no one.

You write to yourself.

You are a detective of the dead.

You seek the truth.

The truth is cold.

The truth is heavy.

It sits in your chest.

It is a stone.

You must move.

You must walk.

The path is narrow.

The trees are black.

They watch you.

They know.

They always know.

You remember the day you left.

The house was silent.

Your brother, Thomas, stood by the door.

He wore the coat.

It was red.

It was bright.

It was wrong.

He smiled.

He said nothing.

He did not need to speak.

His eyes were empty.

His eyes were full of rain.

You ran.

You ran far.

You ran until your lungs burned.

You ran until the world was just mist.

And then you stopped.

And you looked back.

He was gone.

Or he was waiting.

You never knew.

Now you are here.

At the edge of the moor.

The wind howls.

It sounds like a man.

It sounds like a warning.

You take out the map.

It is old.

The lines are faded.

You trace the route.

It leads to the church.

The church is ruined.

The roof is gone.

The pews are splintered wood.

You climb the hill.

Your legs ache.

Your knees scream.

Time is a thief.

It steals your strength.

It steals your memory.

It steals your hope.

But you keep climbing.

You must find the coat.

The coat is the key.

The coat is the lie.

The coat is the truth.

You reach the top.

The church is small.

It is dark.

You step inside.

The dust settles.

It is thick.

It coats your skin.

You feel old.

You feel dead.

You look for the coat.

It is not on a hook.

It is not in a box.

It is buried.

Under the altar.

You dig.

Your hands bleed.

The soil is hard.

The roots are thick.

You dig until you cannot breathe.

You dig until you see the red.

A patch of red.

Bright in the dark.

You pull.

The earth gives way.

You lift the bundle.

It is heavy.

It is wet.

It is cold.

You unwrap the cloth.

The coat is there.

It is intact.

The buttons are silver.

The lining is silk.

It is beautiful.

It is terrible.

You hold it.

You feel the weight.

It is not just wool.

It is not just thread.

It is memory.

It is guilt.

It is love.

You hear a sound.

A footstep.

On the stone.

You turn.

A figure stands in the doorway.

It is tall.

It is thin.

It wears a hood.

You do not know him.

You do not know who he is.

But you feel him.

He is the enemy.

He is the ally.

He is the brother.

He is the stranger.

He walks forward.

He does not speak.

He reaches for the coat.

You step back.

You hold the coat tight.

You will not let go.

You will not give it up.

You have come too far.

You have suffered too much.

You are the owner.

You are the keeper.

He stops.

He looks at you.

His face is hidden.

But you see his eyes.

They are soft.

They are sad.

They are full of rain.

You recognize them.

They are Thomas’s eyes.

You freeze.

Your heart stops.

Your breath stops.

The world stops.

He is not a stranger.

He is not a ghost.

He is a man.

He is a servant.

He is the one who betrayed you.

He was the one who told them you were mad.

He was the one who took the coat.

He was the one who sold it.

He was the one who let them burn the house.

And now he is here.

To take it back.

To take you down.

You look at the coat.

You look at the man.

You understand.

The coat is not yours.

It was never yours.

It was his.

He gave it to you.

He gave it to you to save you.

He gave it to you to let you go.

He took the blame.

He took the pain.

He took the death.

And you took the life.

You took the years.

You took the freedom.

You took the truth.

And you buried it.

You buried it under the altar.

You buried it under the lies.

You buried it under the fear.

And now it is here.

And he is here.

And you are here.

He takes a step.

You take a step.

You meet in the middle.

He reaches out.

You reach out.

Your hands meet.

He holds the coat.

You hold his hand.

He pulls the coat away.

He wraps it around himself.

He is warm.

He is alive.

He is real.

He looks at you.

He nods.

He turns.

He walks to the door.

He steps out.

The mist swallows him.

He is gone.

You are alone.

The church is silent.

The dust settles.

You sit on the stone.

You look at your hands.

They are empty.

They are clean.

They are free.

You feel light.

You feel small.

You feel human.

The sun breaks through the clouds.

It hits the floor.

It is gold.

It is warm.

It is life.

You stand up.

You walk to the door.

You step out.

The air is cold.

The air is fresh.

You breathe.

You taste the earth.

You taste the rain.

You taste the past.

You leave the coat.

You leave the truth.

You leave the guilt.

You walk down the hill.

The path is clear.

The trees are green.

The birds are singing.

You are not a detective.

You are not a hunter.

You are a man.

You are a brother.

You are a survivor.

You are a fool.

And you are free.

You walk on.

You do not look back.

You do not need to.

The coat is with him.

The truth is with him.

The guilt is with him.

You have nothing.

You have everything.

The mist lifts.

The sun shines.

The world turns.

You are small.

You are old.

You are here.

You are now.

You are enough.

You walk into the light.

You walk into the life.

You walk into the future.

It is unknown.

It is open.

It is yours.

You take a step.

Then another.

Then another.

The ground is soft.

The air is sweet.

You smile.

You cry.

You laugh.

You are alive.

The end.