The lichen was spreading. It moved slowly, a white tide over the grey stones of the old abbey. I watched it. I always watched it.

"Is it eating the wall?" Thomas asked.

He stood by my side. His boots were muddy. He was always muddy. I kept my shoes clean. I had to be careful. The air here was thick with dust and old prayers.

"Spores," I said. "Just spores."

"Spores," he repeated. He tested the word. It sounded small. "Does it hurt?"

"I don't know."

He looked at me. His eyes were bright. Too bright. "You know things, Elias. You write the books. You tell us what is true."

I looked away. The sun was low. It caught the edges of the ruins. Everything was gold for a second. Then the shadow returned.

We had been here for three days. Three days of silence and stone. I came to escape the noise. I came to find the old texts. I came to prove that the history was real. But the history was quiet. It did not want to be found.

Thomas sat down on a broken pillar. He held his hands over his knees. He was my student. He was also my friend. That was the trouble. He looked at me with a hunger I did not understand. He wanted me to be something I was not.

"Tell me about the monks," he said. "Did they pray?"

"They chanted," I corrected. "It was a work. Not a prayer."

"But they believed."

"Belief is a habit. Like breathing."

Thomas nodded. He picked up a small stone. He threw it. It hit the lichen. A small white mark.

"Why do you come here, Elias?"

"Research."

"Lies."

I felt a sting. "I am a scholar. I do not lie."

"You hide. You hide in your books. You hide in your silence. I can see it."

I did not answer. The wind blew through the arches. It made a low hum. It sounded like a throat clearing.

I had come to this place because of the letters. Old letters. Written in ink that had turned brown. They described a garden that grew inside the ruins. A garden of light. I believed it was a metaphor. I was a man of logic. I did not believe in gardens of light.

But the lichen. It was not just white. In the afternoon, it shimmered. It had a blue edge. Like ice. Like memory.

"Look," Thomas whispered.

He pointed.

At the base of the north wall, there was a patch of green. Not moss. Moss was rough. This was smooth. It pulsed. Very faintly. A rhythm. Slow. Like a heartbeat.

I stepped forward. My shoe scraped the stone.

"Don't," Thomas said.

"I am not a child."

"You are a ghost," he said. "A ghost in a body that is too big."

I stopped. I looked at him. His face was serious. He was not joking.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you are not here. You are somewhere else. Somewhere cold."

I touched my face. My skin was dry. I felt a dryness in my chest. It had been there for weeks. The doctor had called it fatigue. I called it truth. I was tired. Tired of arguing. Tired of proving. Tired of being right.

The green patch pulsed again.

It was beautiful.

I knelt down. I did not think about it. I just knelt. The stone was cold. The green was warm.

"It is alive," I said.

Thomas stood. He did not kneel. He stayed on his feet. He looked down at me.

"Touch it," he said.

"I will not."

"Touch it. Please."

I looked at his hands. They were rough. He had worked the soil. He had handled the plants. He was part of the world. I was not.

I reached out. My fingers hovered over the green. It did not move away. It waited.

I touched it.

It was soft. Like skin. Like a petal.

A shock went through my arm. It went up my shoulder. It went into my head.

I saw a flash.

I was not in the abbey. I was in a field. The sky was huge. There were no walls. There was no stone. There was only grass. And wind. And a voice. A deep voice. It said my name.

Elias.

I pulled my hand back.

I was shaking.

"What?" Thomas said.

"Nothing."

"It was not nothing. Your eyes."

He was right. My eyes were wet.

"I saw..." I started.

"You saw what you wanted to see," Thomas said. "Or what you were afraid to see."

I stood up. My legs felt weak. The abbey seemed to tilt. The shadows were longer.

"We should go," I said.

"No."

"Thomas."

"No, Elias. You cannot run. You have been running for years. Running from the fact that you are empty. The garden is not a metaphor. It is a mirror."

"I am a scholar."

"You are a man who has forgotten how to feel. You have buried yourself under facts. But facts are cold. And you are dying."

The word hung in the air. Dying.

I looked at the lichen. It was spreading faster now. It was covering the words carved into the stone. The names of the monks. The dates. The prayers. All of it was disappearing.

"Why are you helping me?" I asked.

"I am not helping you. I am showing you. There is a difference."

I felt a surge of anger. It was old anger. The anger of a man who has been mocked. Who has been told he is soft. Who has been told he is broken.

"Get out," I said.

Thomas did not move.

"You are afraid," he said.

"I am not afraid."

"You are terrified. You are terrified that if you stop thinking, you will disappear."

I looked at the green patch. It was pulsing stronger. It was brighter. It was calling me.

I looked at Thomas. He was watching me. He did not look angry. He looked sad. He looked like a brother. He looked like the only person who had ever truly seen me.

I felt a crack in my chest. A small crack. But it was there.

I sat down again. I put my hands on my knees. I closed my eyes.

"Tell me," I said.

Thomas sat next to me. He did not touch me. But I felt his warmth.

"Tell me what?"

"Tell me what it is."

"It is the part of you that is alive. The part that does not need a name. The part that does not need a proof."

I opened my eyes.

The lichen was everywhere. It was on the floor. It was on the pillars. It was on the air. It was a white fog.

And in the fog, I saw the green. It was not just a patch. It was a tree. A small tree, growing out of the stone. Its leaves were the same smooth green. It was glowing.

It was beautiful.

It was terrifying.

"It is going to take me," I said.

Thomas looked at me.

"Will it?"

"I don't know."

"Does it matter?"

I looked at the tree. I looked at Thomas.

"Yes," I said. "It matters."

Thomas smiled. It was a sad smile.

"Then choose."

I looked at my hands. They were trembling.

"I choose to stay."

Thomas nodded.

He stood up. He brushed the dust from his clothes.

"I will wait," he said.

He walked away. He walked toward the door. The sun was setting. The light was red.

I stayed.

I looked at the tree.

It reached out.

A branch of light. It extended toward me.

I did not move.

I let it come.

It touched my face.

It was cold.

It was warm.

It was everything.

I closed my eyes.

I did not open them.

The lichen covered the stone.

The stone covered the earth.

The earth covered the silence.

And I was gone.

Thomas stood at the door. He looked back.

He saw the white fog.

He saw the glow.

He saw nothing else.

He turned.

He walked out into the night.

The wind howled.

The stars came out.

They were cold.

They were bright.

He walked home.

He did not look back.

He knew.

He had known all along.

Elias was not a man.

Elias was a question.

And the answer was gone.

He touched his own chest.

His heart beat.

Strong.

Fast.

Alive.

He walked.

The road was long.

The road was dark.

But he was not alone.

He carried the light.

He carried the silence.

He carried the truth.

It was heavy.

It was light.

It was everything.

He walked.

And the night swallowed him.