The feast was a wound in the dark.
Candlelight bled across the table.
Meats smoked.
Wine sloshed.
The air was thick with sweat and fear.
Commander Alden sat at the head.
His face was stone.
His hands were still.
Around him, the officers drank.
They laughed.
The sound was sharp.
It cut the air.
It did not reach Alden.
He looked at the wall.
The wall was bare.
A single vine grew there.
It was dry.
It was brown.
It curled like a finger.
It was dying.
It had always been dying.
Alden watched it.
He did not blink.
The General spoke.
The voice was loud.
It echoed.
It shook the dust.
The General pointed at the vine.
The officers looked.
They saw a weed.
They saw nothing.
Alden saw his mother.
He saw the garden.
He saw the rain.
He saw the hands.
They were small.
They were dirt-caked.
They held a seed.
They held a life.
He remembered the hunger.
The cold.
The silence.
The vine was his mother.
It was not a vine.
It was a soul.
It was trapped.
It was here.
In the stone.
In the wall.
In the feast.
The General laughed.
It was a cruel sound.
It was a wet sound.
It tasted of iron.
The General struck the table.
The glass jumped.
The wine spilled.
It ran like blood.
It ran across the wood.
It pooled at the edge.
It dripped.
Drop by drop.
The vine trembled.
It shivered.
It cried out.
Alden heard it.
He heard the pain.
He heard the fear.
He heard the plea.
Let me go.
Let me go.
Let me go.
Alden stood up.
His chair scraped.
The sound was long.
It was ugly.
It stopped the room.
The officers stopped drinking.
They looked at him.
Their eyes were wide.
Their lips were pale.
They saw the change.
They saw the fire.
It burned in his chest.
It burned in his throat.
It burned in his hands.
The General frowned.
The General raised a hand.
Silence fell.
It was heavy.
It was thick.
It pressed on the ears.
It pressed on the mind.
Alden walked to the wall.
His boots were heavy.
They thudded on the floor.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
The vine watched him.
It waited.
It hoped.
Alden reached out.
His fingers were cold.
They touched the stem.
It was brittle.
It was dead.
It was not alive.
It was not his mother.
It was nothing.
It was dust.
It was memory.
He pulled.
The vine snapped.
It fell.
It hit the floor.
It was brown.
It was dry.
It was dead.
The room was quiet.
The officers held their breath.
The General watched.
His eyes were hard.
His face was blank.
Alden looked at the piece.
He looked at the floor.
He looked at the General.
He spoke.
His voice was low.
It was rough.
It was like gravel.
He spoke of the garden.
He spoke of the rain.
He spoke of the hunger.
He spoke of the love.
It was not a speech.
It was a cry.
It was a scream.
It was a prayer.
The officers listened.
They did not understand.
They heard nonsense.
They heard madness.
They saw a man breaking.
They saw a soldier failing.
The General nodded.
It was a small movement.
It was final.
It was a judgment.
He called for the guards.
The doors opened.
The guards entered.
They were tall.
They were strong.
They held their weapons.
The metal glinted.
It was bright.
It was cold.
They moved to Alden.
They grabbed him.
They held him tight.
He did not fight.
He did not struggle.
He was still.
He was calm.
He was empty.
He looked at the floor.
He looked at the vine.
He saw his mother.
She was not there.
She was gone.
She was everywhere.
She was in the air.
She was in the light.
She was in the dark.
She was in the silence.
She was in the feast.
She was in the pain.
She was in the end.
He closed his eyes.
He let go.
He let go.
He let go.
The guards dragged him.
His feet dragged on the floor.
The sound was long.
It was ugly.
It was final.
The doors closed.
The latch clicked.
It was a small sound.
It was loud.
It was the end.
The feast continued.
The wine was poured.
The laughter returned.
It was louder.
It was sharper.
It was cruel.
The officers drank.
They forgot.
They moved on.
The vine was on the floor.
It was brown.
It was dry.
It was dead.
No one saw it.
No one cared.
It was nothing.
It was dust.
It was memory.
It was gone.
The night was deep.
The stars were out.
They were cold.
They were far.
They did not care.
The moon was high.
It was pale.
It was bright.
It shone on the house.
It shone on the wall.
It shone on the vine.
It shone on the grave.
It was a cycle.
It was a wheel.
It turned.
It turned.
It turned.
The vine was not dead.
It was sleeping.
It was waiting.
It was dreaming.
It dreamed of rain.
It dreamed of soil.
It dreamed of sun.
It dreamed of hands.
It dreamed of love.
It dreamed of life.
It would return.
It would grow.
It would bloom.
It would die.
It would return.
The cycle was unbroken.
The cycle was eternal.
The cycle was true.
Alden knew this.
He had always known.
He had fought it.
He had tried to break it.
He had failed.
He had lost.
He had won.
He had let go.
He had found peace.
He had found rest.
He had found home.
The home was not a place.
The home was a state.
The home was a feeling.
The home was a soul.
The home was a vine.
The vine was him.
He was the vine.
He was the wall.
He was the stone.
He was the earth.
He was the rain.
He was the sun.
He was the wind.
He was the air.
He was the life.
He was the death.
He was the beginning.
He was the end.
He was the middle.
He was the whole.
The whole was one.
The one was all.
The all was nothing.
The nothing was everything.
The silence was loud.
The silence was true.
The silence was kind.
The silence was home.
The vine curled.
The vine slept.
The vine waited.
The vine dreamed.
The vine lived.
The vine died.
The vine returned.
The cycle turned.
The wheel spun.
The star shone.
The moon rose.
The night fell.
The day came.
The cycle turned.
The cycle turned.
The cycle turned.
It would never stop.
It would never end.
It would never fail.
It was perfect.
It was cruel.
It was beautiful.
It was true.
The vine was there.
It was always there.
It would always be there.
It was part of the world.
It was part of the life.
It was part of the soul.
It was part of the dream.
It was part of the truth.
The truth was simple.
The truth was hard.
The truth was kind.
The truth was love.
The love was strong.
The love was deep.
The love was old.
The love was new.
The love was now.
The love was then.
The love was here.
The love was there.
The love was everywhere.
The love was nothing.
The love was everything.
The vine curled.
The vine slept.
The vine waited.
The vine dreamed.
The vine lived.
The vine died.
The vine returned.
The cycle turned.
The wheel spun.
The star shone.
The moon rose.
The night fell.
The day came.
The cycle turned.
The cycle turned.
The cycle turned.
It would never stop.
It would never end.
It would never fail.
It was perfect.
It was cruel.
It was beautiful.
It was true.
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