The wind screeches. It strips the leaves from the oak. They fall. They hit the mud. You watch. You do not blink. The house is cold. The fire is dead. You sit. You wait.

The door opens.

Edward enters. He wears black. He wears gray. He smells of rain. He smells of iron. He looks at you. You look at him.

"Hello, Thomas," he says.

"Hello, Edward."

You do not stand. You do not smile. You hold your cup. The ceramic is warm. It burns your fingers. You do not let go.

He sits. He sits opposite. The chair creaks. The wood groans. It sounds like a bone breaking.

"You sent for me," you say.

"I did."

"Why?"

"Because it is time."

Time. The word hangs. It is heavy. It is thick. It tastes of dust.

You look at the wall. There is a painting. It is old. It is faded. It shows a garden. The flowers are yellow. The sun is bright. It is a lie. The light is flat. The color is wrong.

"Look," he says.

You do not look.

"Thomas. Look."

You look. He points. He points at the corner. The shadow moves. It shifts. It grows. It is not a shadow. It is a shape. It is a bird. It is a crow.

The crow is black. The feathers are wet. The eyes are red. The eyes are you.

"What is that?" you ask.

"Your soul," he says.

You laugh. The sound is dry. It is brittle. It cracks in the air.

"My soul is here," you say. You tap your chest.

"No," he says. "It is there."

You stare. The crow stares back. It does not move. It does not breathe. It waits.

"I do not believe you."

"Belief is irrelevant," he says. "Fact is relevant."

"Fact is a lie."

"Fact is what remains when the lie is stripped."

The wind hits the window. The glass vibrates. The sound is high. The sound is sharp. It cuts the silence.

"You have been cruel, Thomas," Edward says.

"I have been necessary."

"Necessary is not kind."

"Kindness is a luxury."

"Kindness is survival."

You drink. The tea is cold. It tastes of leaves. It tastes of earth.

"Tell me," you say.

"Tell you what?"

"Tell me the truth."

"Which truth?"

"The one I fear."

He leans forward. The light hits his face. Half is shadow. Half is light. He looks tired. He looks young. He looks old.

"You killed them," he says.

"I protected us."

"You killed them. You killed the neighbors. You killed the children. You did it for power. You did it for the house."

The crow blinks. The red eyes flash.

"You are wrong," you say. "I did it for love."

"Love?" He spits the word. "Love is not blood. Love is not bone."

"Love is hunger," you say. "Love is the need to keep."

"To keep what?"

"To keep us safe. From the world. From the dark."

"The dark is inside you," he says.

You stand. You move. You walk to the window. The glass is cold. Your breath fogs it. You wipe it. The view is clear. The garden is dead. The trees are bare. The sky is gray.

The crow is still there. It is closer. It is on the sill. It tilts its head. It knows you. It loves you.

"Come here," you whisper.

Edward stands. He moves. He is fast. He is fluid. He is water.

"Stay," you say.

"I will not."

"You will."

"You cannot stop me."

You turn. You hold your hand. The hand is empty. But it is heavy. It is full.

"What do you want?" he asks.

"I want to be free."

"You are free."

"I am not."

"You are bound."

"Bound to what?"

"Bound to the bird."

The crow caws. The sound is loud. It is harsh. It is human.

"I am the bird," you say.

Edward stops. He looks at you. His eyes are wide. His mouth is open. He sees you. He sees the truth.

"No," he says. "That is not true."

"It is true. I am the beast. I am the monster. I am the thing that eats."

"Stop."

"I cannot stop. The hunger is real. The need is real. I am the wolf. I am the dog. I am the chain."

"You are Thomas," he says. "You are my friend."

"Friends do not kill."

"Friends do not forgive."

The room spins. The floor tilts. The walls breathe. The air is thick. The air is sweet. It smells of rot. It smells of bloom.

"Let me go," you say.

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"Because you are mine. Because I am yours. We are one."

The crow flies. It flies into the room. It lands on your shoulder. It is light. It is weightless. It is you.

Edward steps back. He steps back. He falls. He hits the wall. He slides down. He sits on the floor. He looks small. He looks broken.

"Thomas," he whispers.

"I am gone," you say.

"No. You are here."

"I am everywhere."

The crow ruffles its feathers. The feathers are soft. The feathers are sharp. They cut the air. They cut the light.

"You are a traitor," Edward says.

"I am a mirror."

"You are a lie."

"I am the truth."

The fire in the hearth jumps. The sparks fly. The sparks dance. They are gold. They are fire.

"Look at me," you say.

He looks. He looks into your eyes. He sees the red. He sees the black. He sees the void.

"I am sorry," he says.

"Sorry for what?"

"Sorry for knowing. Sorry for seeing. Sorry for loving you."

You feel it. The love. It is cold. It is hot. It is sharp. It is dull. It is the only thing that is real.

"You do not love me," you say.

"I do."

"You love the idea."

"I love the man."

"The man is dead."

"Then I love the ghost."

The crow laughs. The laugh is your laugh. It is Edward’s laugh. It is the wind’s laugh.

"Leave," you say.

"I will not."

"Then stay. And suffer."

"I will stay. And wait."

You sit. You sit down. The chair creaks. The wood groans. The crow settles. It is warm. It is safe. It is home.

The wind stops. The silence is loud. The silence is deep. The silence is full.

"Who are you?" he asks.

"I am the house," you say.

"I am the key," he says.

"I am the lock."

"I am the door."

"I am the room."

The lights flicker. The lights die. The dark comes. The dark is soft. The dark is kind.

In the dark, you breathe. He breathes. The crow breathes.

One breath. Two breaths. Three.

The sound is small. The sound is quiet. The sound is endless.

You do not open your eyes. He does not open his eyes. The crow does not open its eyes.

The house stands. The house waits. The house holds.

The wind returns. The wind howls. The wind screams.

But you do not flinch. You do not move. You do not fear.

You are the center. You are the still point. You are the eye of the storm.

He is the edge. He is the spin. He is the chaos.

And the crow is the bridge. The crow is the bond. The crow is the curse.

"Thomas," he says.

"Edward," you say.

The names are stones. The names are anchors. They hold you down. They hold you up.

You are the exile. You are the immigrant. You are the stranger in your own skin.

He is the conqueror. He is the enemy. He is the friend.

The lines are blurred. The lines are broken. The lines are gone.

There is only the dark. There is only the sound. There is only the love.

It is not good. It is not evil. It is not right. It is not wrong.

It is.

It simply is.

The crow closes its eyes. The red fades. The black deepens. The shape dissolves.

The light returns. The light is pale. The light is weak. The light is dying.

Edward stands. He walks to the door. He opens it. The wind rushes in. The wind takes him. The wind takes his coat. The wind takes his hat.

He does not look back. He does not speak. He does not wave.

He walks into the gray. He walks into the mud. He walks into the cold.

He is gone.

You are alone.

The crow is gone.

The fire is gone.

The house is empty.

You stand. You walk to the window. You look out. The garden is empty. The path is empty. The sky is empty.

You are empty.

You are full.

You are the golden ritual. You are the sacrifice. You are the offering.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

The wind blows. The leaves fall. The mud dries. The stone cracks. The time passes. The time stops.

You breathe.

The story ends.

The silence begins.