The air tasted of copper and wet stone. I walked. The ground beneath my boots was soft, yielding like damp clay. It was not earth. It was not snow. It was something else. Something that remembered being alive.

I had been here for days. Or years. Time had lost its teeth here. It did not bite. It only rotted.

I was an exile. I knew this fact as I knew my own name. James. James Whitmore. I had left the world of glass and steel. I had left the world of clocks and bills. I had come here to find peace. I had come here to find an end.

But there was no end. There was only the walking.

The landscape was a blur of grey and white. Trees stood like broken bones. They had no leaves. They had no bark. They were just shapes. Shadows cast by a sun that never rose and never set. The light was flat. It came from everywhere. It came from nowhere.

I felt a chill. It was not cold. It was a vibration. A hum in the marrow of my bones.

I stopped. I looked at my hands. They were pale. They were thin. The skin was translucent. I could see the blue veins beneath. They pulsed. Slowly. Like a tide.

I was old. I knew this. My joints ached. My back was stiff. I was a man in the autumn of his life. Or perhaps the winter. I could not tell. The seasons did not change. The days did not pass. I was trapped in a moment of decay.

I needed to move. Standing still was dangerous. Stillness invited the mist. The mist had eyes. The mist had a voice.

I walked on.

Ahead, I saw a figure. It sat on a rock. It was small. It was hunched. It wore a coat of grey wool. The coat was old. The wool was matted. The figure did not move.

I approached. My boots crunched on the soft ground. The sound was loud. Too loud. It echoed. It rang in my ears.

I stopped a few feet away. I looked at the figure.

It was a man. He was old. His hair was white. It was long. It hung down his back like a veil. His face was hidden in the shadow of his hood.

"Who are you?" I asked. My voice was dry. It cracked. It was the voice of a man who had not spoken in a long time.

The figure did not answer. He did not move. He sat like a statue. A statue of stone and ash.

I waited. The silence was heavy. It pressed against my chest. It made it hard to breathe.

I looked at his hands. They were resting on his knees. They were still. They were perfect. They were the hands of a teacher. The hands of a guide.

I felt a pull. A tug in my heart. It was strong. It was primal. It was the instinct of the child seeking the parent. The instinct of the lost seeking the found.

I knelt. I put my hands on his shoulders. I shook him. Gently. Firmly.

"Sir," I said. "Please. I am lost. I do not know where I am. I do not know how to leave."

The figure moved.

It was not a sudden movement. It was slow. It was fluid. Like water. Like smoke.

He raised his head.

I saw his face.

It was my face.

Not a copy. Not a reflection. It was my face. The same lines. The same eyes. The same sorrow.

He was older than me. Or perhaps I was younger. It was hard to tell. The distinction had blurred.

He looked at me. His eyes were dark. They were deep. They held a weight. A gravity.

"You are here," he said. His voice was low. It was calm. It was the voice of the wind.

"Yes," I said. "I am here."

"Why?" he asked.

"I do not know."

"You know," he said. "You have always known."

I looked away. I looked at the trees. The broken bones of the world.

"I was tired," I said. "I was tired of the noise. I was tired of the waiting. I wanted to stop."

"Stopping is not leaving," he said. "Stopping is only beginning."

I felt a shock. It ran through me. It was cold. It was sharp.

I looked at him again. He was smiling. It was a small smile. A sad smile. A smile of understanding.

"Who are you?" I asked again.

"I am you," he said. "I am the you that comes after. I am the you that stays."

I stood up. My legs were weak. My knees shook.

I looked at the ground. The soft clay. The damp earth.

I looked at my hands. The pale skin. The blue veins.

I looked at him. The old man. The teacher. The mirror.

I realized then. I had not come here to find peace. I had come here to find the truth. And the truth was ugly. The truth was that I was not an exile. I was a prisoner. And the prison was my own body. My own time.

The mist was closing in. It was thick. It was white. It was swallowing the trees. It was swallowing the light.

"It is time," he said.

"What time?"

"The time to remember."

I closed my eyes. I listened. I heard the hum. The vibration in my bones.

I remembered.

I remembered the city. The glass. The steel. The clocks. The bills.

I remembered the pain. The long, slow ache of the body failing. The mind racing. The fear of the dark. The fear of the end.

I remembered the choice. The quiet room. The white chair. The final decision.

I had not died. I had not passed. I had not gone to heaven. I had not gone to hell.

I had gone here. Into the loop. Into the cycle.

The wheel turns. It always turns. We are the spokes. We are the hub. We are the wheel.

We cannot escape. We can only turn.

I opened my eyes. The mist was gone. The trees were clear. The light was bright.

The old man was gone. The rock was empty.

I was alone.

I looked at my hands. They were no longer pale. They were strong. They were young.

I looked at the ground. The clay was hard. It was dry.

I stood up. I was tall. I was straight.

I walked.

The ground was firm. The air was sweet. The sun was warm.

I was not old. I was not young. I was just.

I was here.

I walked on. The trees passed by. The light changed. The shadows moved.

I walked for a long time. Or a short time. It did not matter.

I came to a field. The grass was green. It was tall. It swayed in the wind.

In the center of the field, there was a tree. It was big. It was full. It had leaves. They were red. They were gold. They were bright.

I walked to the tree. I put my hand on the bark. It was rough. It was warm.

I felt a pain. It was sharp. It was sudden. It was in my chest.

I fell to my knees.

The grass was soft. The wind was cool.

I looked up. The sky was blue. It was deep. It was endless.

I saw a face. It was not my face. It was not the old man's face.

It was a child's face. It was small. It was round. It was bright with life.

The child looked at me. It did not speak. It did not cry. It just looked.

I knew it. I knew it well.

It was me. The me before the pain. The me before the waiting. The me before the choice.

I reached out. I wanted to touch it. I wanted to save it. I wanted to stop the wheel.

But I could not.

My hand stopped in the air.

The child looked at me. Its eyes were sad. Its eyes were kind.

It smiled.

I understood.

I could not stop the wheel. I could only turn.

I let my hand fall.

I stood up.

I looked at the child. One last time.

I turned away.

I walked back into the mist.

The mist was thick. It was white. It was cold.

I walked.

The ground was soft. The air was damp.

I was alone.

I was not old. I was not young.

I was just.

I was here.

The wheel turns.

I turn.

I am the wheel.

I am the hub.

I am the spoke.

I am the turn.

I am the end.

I am the beginning.

I walk.

The mist swallows me.

I am gone.

I am here.

I walk.