The mud is cold. It sucks at your boots. You walk. The rain falls. It is heavy. It is wet. It is the rain of the Old World. You remember it. You hate it.

You carry a bag. The bag is brown. The bag is old. Inside the bag is a thing. The thing is green. The thing is alive. It is a plant. It has roots. The roots are wet. The roots are tangled. You hold it tight. You do not look at it. You look at the road. The road is long. The road is straight. The road goes nowhere.

This is the land of the King. The King is far away. The King is in the castle. The castle is high. The castle is stone. The stone is cold. You are not in the castle. You are on the road. You are a walker. You are a exile. You left the village. You left the hearth. You left the name. You have no name now. You are just legs. You are just breath.

You stop. You lean on a stick. The stick is ash. It is dry. You look at your hands. Your hands are red. Your hands are cracked. You open the bag. You take out the plant.

It is small. It is fragile. It is a sapling. It was a tree in your home. It was an oak. It was huge. It was old. It stood in the square. The people sat under it. The children played under it. The lovers kissed under it. It was the heart of the village.

The King’s men came. They said the tree was illegal. They said the tree belonged to the Crown. They said the Crown needed the wood. They cut it down. They chopped the roots. They burned the leaves. You watched. You did not scream. You did not fight. You took a seed. You took the last piece of the root. You planted it. You carried it.

You have carried it for three years.

The rain stops. The sun comes out. The sun is pale. The sun is weak. It does not warm you. You walk on. The road curves. It goes into the hills. The hills are gray. The hills are silent.

You hear a voice.

"Hey. You."

You turn. A man is there. He is small. He is old. He wears a coat. The coat is gray. The coat is wet. He holds a pipe. The pipe is empty.

"Who are you?" you ask.

"I am a walker," he says. "I am a exile. Like you."

You nod. You do not trust him. You hold the bag tighter.

"Where are you going?" he asks.

"I am going home," you say.

"There is no home," he says. "Home is gone. You know this."

You look at him. His eyes are kind. His eyes are sad.

"Come with me," he says. "There is a place. There is a cave. It is dry. It is warm. We can rest."

You hesitate. You look at the road. The road is lonely. The road is cold.

"Okay," you say.

You follow him. He walks slowly. You walk slowly. The trees pass by. The trees are bare. The trees are dead.

You enter the cave. The cave is dark. The cave is damp. You sit down. You put the bag on the ground. The old man sits across from you. He takes out a flask. He drinks. He offers it to you. You refuse.

"You carry a secret," he says.

You look at the bag. "No," you say.

"Yes," he says. "I can see it. I can smell it. It is the smell of the earth. It is the smell of the root."

You stay silent. You do not speak.

"Give it to me," he says.

"No," you say.

"Why?" he asks.

"Because it is mine," you say.

"It is not yours," he says. "It is a piece of the world. It is a memory. Memories are heavy. They break the back. You are breaking."

You look at his hands. His hands are trembling. He is dying. You see it. His skin is thin. His bones are sharp.

"I will not give it," you say. "I will kill you if you try."

He smiles. It is a sad smile. "You cannot kill," he says. "You are too tired. You are too weak. You are too afraid."

He reaches for the bag.

You stand up. You grab the bag. You pull it back. He pulls. You pull. The bag tears. The plant falls out.

It hits the ground. It is broken. The stem is snapped. The leaves are crushed.

You freeze. You look at the plant. You look at the old man. He is laughing. He is coughing. Blood is on his lips.

"You did it," he says. "You killed it."

"I didn't mean to," you say. "I didn't..."

"You were too tight," he says. "You held it too tight. You wanted to keep it. You wanted to own it. You wanted to be the owner of the tree. But the tree is not yours. The tree is the wind. The tree is the rain. You cannot own the wind."

You stare at the broken plant. The sap is oozing. The sap is green. The sap is life. The sap is death.

"I wanted to save it," you whisper.

"You wanted to save yourself," he says. "You wanted to be the hero. You wanted to be the one who kept the memory alive. But you are not the hero. You are just a man. You are just a body. And bodies break."

He falls back. He is gone. He is dead.

You are alone.

You look at the plant. It is dead. It is truly dead. The green is fading. The leaves are turning brown. The roots are drying out.

You feel a pain. The pain is in your chest. The pain is in your head. The pain is in your soul. You cry. You do not know why. You cry for the tree. You cry for the village. You cry for the King. You cry for the old man. You cry for yourself.

You stand up. Your legs are shaky. Your knees are weak. You look at the cave. The cave is dark. The cave is deep.

You walk out. The rain has started again. It is heavy. It is cold.

You walk on. The road is long. The road is straight.

You look down. The plant is in your hand. You are still holding it. You do not know how. You dropped it. It is in your hand.

You look at it closely. The stem is not broken. The leaves are not crushed. It is whole. It is green. It is alive.

You look at your hands. Your hands are empty.

You look at the ground. There is no plant there.

You look at your hands again. You are holding the plant.

You do not understand. You do not want to understand. You just hold it.

You walk on.

The days pass. The weeks pass. The months pass.

You walk through the forest. The forest is dark. The forest is thick. You hear birds. You hear wind. You hear water.

You find a stream. The water is clear. The water is cold. You kneel down. You cup your hands. You drink. The water is sweet. The water is pure.

You look at the plant. It is growing. The leaves are larger. The stem is thicker. It is strong. It is healthy.

You dig a hole in the mud. The mud is soft. The mud is wet. You put the plant in the hole. You cover it with earth. You press the earth down. You water it.

You sit back. You watch it.

A bird lands on a branch. The bird is small. The bird is gray. It looks at you. It sings. The song is high. The song is clear.

You close your eyes. You listen.

You remember the King. The King is a monster. The King is a lie. The King is a ghost. The King has no power. The King is just a name. The name is empty. The name is dead.

You open your eyes. The sun is shining. The sun is gold. The sun is warm.

You feel a peace. The peace is quiet. The peace is deep.

You stand up. Your legs are strong. Your back is straight.

You look at the plant. It is small. It is fragile. It is alive.

You turn around. You walk away. You do not look back.

You walk into the forest. The forest is deep. The forest is wild.

You are free.

You are light.

You are gone.

The plant grows. The plant grows tall. The plant grows wide. It becomes a tree. The tree is an oak. The oak is huge. The oak is old.

The people come. The people sit under it. The children play under it. The lovers kiss under it.

They do not know who planted it. They do not know who carried it. They do not know who died for it.

They just know the tree. They just know the shade. They just know the rest.

And that is enough.

And that is everything.

The wind blows. The leaves rustle. The leaves whisper.

They whisper your name.

They whisper your name.

But you are not there.

You are everywhere.

You are nowhere.

You are the wind.

You are the rain.

You are the echo.

The golden echo.

It fades.

It fades.

It is gone.