The train shook. It shook like a broken tooth. Margaret sat in the corner. She held her bag. The bag was heavy. It was not full of gold. It was full of letters.

Outside, the fields were gray. The sky was gray. The world was dying of rust.

Margaret looked at her hands. They were small. They were pale. She was a stranger here. She was a ghost in her own life.

The carriage smelled of coal. It smelled of wet wool. It smelled of fear.

A man sat across from her. He wore a hat. The hat was black. His face was hidden.

"Where to, lady?" he asked.

His voice was rough. It scraped the air.

Margaret did not answer. She stared at the floor. The floor was dirty. It was worn.

"I am going to the end," she said.

The man laughed. It was a dry sound. Like a leaf falling.

"There is no end," he said. "Only more tracks. More dust."

Margaret nodded. She did not smile. She did not frown. She was still. She was stone.

The train sped up. The wind howled. The windows rattled. They were about to break.

Margaret closed her eyes. She saw the house. The white house. It stood in the mud. It stood in the rain. It was waiting for her.

It was waiting to kill her.

She opened her eyes. The man was watching her. His eyes were dark. They were deep.

"You look tired," he said.

"I am dying," Margaret said.

The man leaned forward. He smelled of tobacco. He smelled of old blood.

"Everyone is dying," he said. "It is the only honest thing we do."

Margaret shook her head. "No. Not everyone. Not me. I am chosen."

The man smiled. It was a sad smile. It was a cruel smile.

"Chosen for what?" he asked.

"For the fire," she said.

The man went still. He did not move. He did not blink.

The train entered a tunnel. The darkness was total. The darkness was thick. It pressed against the glass. It pressed against their faces.

In the dark, Margaret spoke. Her voice was low. It was a whisper. But it cut the air.

"I must burn," she said. "I must become ash. Then I am free."

The man pulled his hat down. He hid his face. He did not argue. He did not laugh.

The tunnel ended. The light returned. It was harsh. It was blinding.

They were in the town. The town was small. It was quiet. The streets were empty.

The train stopped. The brakes screamed. It was a scream of pain.

Margaret stood up. Her legs were stiff. Her knees were locked.

She walked to the door. The man watched her. He did not follow.

"Wait," he said.

She stopped. She turned. Her face was blank.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because you are wrong," he said.

Margaret looked at him. She saw his eyes. They were full of pity. They were full of sorrow.

"You are not chosen," he said. "You are just lost."

Margaret felt a sharp pain. It was in her chest. It was a hook. It pulled at her heart.

"I am not lost," she said. "I am going home."

"There is no home," he said. "There is only the road. And the road goes on."

Margaret looked at the platform. It was wet. The rain was falling. The rain was cold.

She stepped off the train. Her foot hit the gravel. It was cold. It was hard.

She walked away. Her steps were quick. Her heart was fast.

The man watched her go. He did not move. He did not speak.

He knew. He knew the truth.

The truth was ugly. The truth was heavy.

Margaret walked into the town. The houses were gray. The people were gray. They looked at her. They did not speak. They turned away.

She was a stranger. She was a threat.

She walked to the square. The square was empty. In the center stood a statue. It was old. It was broken.

She sat down. She opened her bag. She took out the letters.

They were yellow. They were soft. They were warm.

She held them to her face. They smelled of lavender. They smelled of love.

She thought of him. She thought of his face. She thought of his voice.

He was gone. He was dead.

But the letters remained.

She read them. She read the words.

*My dearest Margaret. My heart is yours. My soul is yours. I am sorry. I am so sorry.*

Tears fell. They fell on the paper. They made the ink run.

She cried. She cried hard. It was not a pretty cry. It was a ugly cry. It was a cry of pain.

The people in the square watched. They did not help. They did not comfort. They watched.

They were cruel. They were cold.

Margaret stood up. She threw the letters to the ground.

"Go away," she said. "You are dust. You are nothing."

The wind picked up the letters. It scattered them. They flew in the air. They were white. They were like birds.

Margaret watched them fall. She watched them land.

She felt empty. She felt hollow.

She was just a shell. She was just a ghost.

She walked to the edge of the town. There was a hill. The hill was high. The hill was steep.

She climbed. Her breath was short. Her heart was pounding.

At the top, she stopped. She looked down. The town was small. It was tiny. It was a toy.

She felt a sudden calm. It was a cold calm. It was a dead calm.

She was going to jump. She was going to end it.

She stepped to the edge. Her foot hung in the air.

Then she saw it.

In the distance, there was a light. It was small. It was bright. It was blue.

It was not a fire. It was not a sun.

It was a figure.

The figure was standing on the hill. It was far away. But it was there.

It was him.

It was her husband.

He was dead. But he was there.

Margaret gasped. Her hands shook. She gripped the edge.

He was not a ghost. He was not a spirit.

He was a memory.

He was a lie.

She had made him up. She had made him into a god. She had made him into a savior.

But he was just a man. He was just a body. He was just dust.

The light faded. The figure vanished.

The world was empty again.

Margaret looked at her hands. They were trembling.

She realized the truth.

There was no fate. There was no destiny.

There was only her.

And she was alone.

She turned away from the edge. She did not jump.

She walked down the hill. She walked back to the town.

She walked to the house. The white house.

It was waiting for her.

She opened the door. The door creaked. It was old. It was tired.

She walked in. The room was dark. The room was cold.

She walked to the window. She looked out.

The rain had stopped. The sky was clear.

The stars were out. They were bright. They were cold.

She looked at her reflection in the glass.

She saw a stranger. She saw a woman. She saw a ghost.

She smiled. It was a small smile. It was a sad smile.

She was not chosen. She was not special.

She was just a person.

And that was enough.

She sat down. She closed her eyes.

She waited.

She waited for the end.

But the end did not come.

The night went on.

The clock ticked.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Margaret breathed. She inhaled. She exhaled.

She was alive.

She was still alive.

And that was the horror.

That was the truth.

To be alive. To be here. To be alone.

She opened her eyes.

The light was coming. The sun was rising.

It was a new day.

It was the same day.

It was always the same day.

Margaret stood up. She put on her coat. She picked up her bag.

She walked out the door.

She walked into the street.

The people were waking up. They were moving. They were living.

Margaret walked among them. She was one of them.

She was not a ghost. She was not a queen.

She was a woman.

And she walked on.

She walked into the morning.

She walked into the light.

And she did not look back.

She did not look back.

She did not look back.