The rain hits the roof. It sounds like knuckles. You are wet. You are cold. You stand in the mud. The mud is black. It smells of rot. You hold the stone. It is cold in your hand. It is smooth. It is heavy. It is your life. It is your debt. You are here to pay.

The gate is open. The air is thick. It tastes of iron. You walk in. The path is straight. The trees are bare. They scratch the sky. You do not look up. You look at your feet. The boots are old. The laces are frayed. You pull them tight. You keep walking.

You arrive at the Hall. It is old. The walls are high. The windows are dark. There is a light inside. It is yellow. It is soft. It is like a coal. You stop. Your heart beats. It is fast. It is loud. You can hear it. It is in your ears. It is in your chest. It is in your throat. You try to breathe. You cannot. You force it. In. Out. In. Out.

You knock.

No one answers.

You knock again.

The wood is hard. It hurts your hand. You do not stop. You keep knocking. The sound echoes. It is sharp. It is clean. It rings in the air.

The door opens.

It creaks. It is slow. A man stands there. He is tall. He is thin. His face is pale. His eyes are dark. They are deep. They are still. He looks at you. He does not blink. He does not move. He waits.

"Who are you?" he asks.

His voice is low. It is rough. It is like gravel. It is like stone.

"I am Elias," you say.

Your voice is small. It is weak. It shakes. You swallow. You try again. "I am Elias Thorne. I am here for the work."

The man tilts his head. He studies you. He looks at your face. He looks at your hands. He looks at the stone. He does not speak. He steps aside. He gestures with his hand. It is a small movement. It is precise. It is cold.

"Enter," he says.

You step in. The air is warm. It is dry. It is still. You shiver. The cold is in your bones. It is in your blood. It is in your soul. You walk in. The door closes. It shuts with a click. It is final. It is heavy.

The room is large. The floor is stone. It is cold. It is smooth. There is a table. It is long. It is made of oak. It is dark. It is polished. There are no chairs. There is only the table. And the light. And the man.

He stands by the wall. He watches you. He does not sit. He does not move. He is a statue. He is a shadow. He is a ghost.

"Put it down," he says.

You look at the stone. It is in your hand. It is heavy. It is cold. You look at the table. The wood is dark. The grain is tight. You place the stone on the table. It makes a sound. It is a thud. It is dull. It is dead.

The man walks over. He moves slowly. He is careful. He does not rush. He stops by the table. He looks at the stone. He does not touch it. He looks at you.

"What is this?" he asks.

It is a question. It is simple. It is direct. You do not understand. You look at the stone. It is just a stone. It is gray. It is plain. It is common.

"It is my heart," you say.

The words are strange. They are wrong. They are true. You do not know how you know. You just know. You look at the man. His face is blank. His eyes are still.

"Your heart," he repeats.

His voice is flat. It has no emotion. It has no doubt. It is a fact. It is a thing.

"Yes," you say.

"Why?" he asks.

You do not answer. You look at the floor. The stone is cold. The air is still. The light is yellow. You feel the weight. It is not in your hand. It is in your chest. It is in your lungs. It is in your mind. You feel the pull. It is strong. It is deep. It is old.

"I am in debt," you say.

The man nods. He is slow. He is calm.

"Who do you owe?" he asks.

You close your eyes. You remember. The face. The hand. The voice. The name.

"Margaret," you say.

The man nods again. He turns away. He walks to the wall. He stops. He looks at the light. The light is yellow. The light is soft.

"Sit," he says.

There is no chair. You do not sit. You stand. You are stiff. You are tense. You are ready. You are afraid.

"You have come to the end," the man says.

His voice is quiet. It is soft. It is like a whisper. It is like a breath.

"Yes," you say.

"The price is high," he says.

"I know," you say.

"Do you?" he asks.

You look at him. You do not know. You do not care. You are tired. You are hungry. You are cold. You are alone. You are here. You are done.

"Take it," you say.

The man looks at you. He looks at the stone. He looks at you again. He smiles. It is small. It is sad. It is real.

"Take it," you say again.

Your voice is loud. It is strong. It is clear. You do not care. You do not think. You just say it. You just mean it.

The man reaches out. His hand is long. His fingers are thin. He touches the stone. He does not pick it up. He touches it. He holds it. He feels it. He knows it.

"It is heavy," he says.

"Yes," you say.

"It is cold," he says.

"Yes," you say.

"It is yours," he says.

"Yes," you say.

He looks at you. His eyes are dark. They are deep. They are full. They are full of something. It is not anger. It is not hate. It is not pity. It is something else. It is something old. It is something true.

"You are not alone," he says.

You do not understand. You look at him. You look at the stone. You look at the light. You look at the wall. You look at the door. You are alone. You have always been alone. You are here. You are now.

"I am here," you say.

"Yes," he says. "You are here."

He picks up the stone. It is in his hand. It is light. It is warm. It is bright. It glows. It is yellow. It is gold. It is fire. It is life. It is love. It is everything.

He holds it out. He offers it to you. He does not take it. He gives it back.

"Keep it," he says.

You do not move. You do not take it. You look at it. It is bright. It is warm. It is heavy. It is yours.

"Why?" you ask.

He does not answer. He steps back. He stands by the wall. He looks at you. He waits.

The stone is in his hand. It is glowing. It is shining. It is singing. It is calling. It is pulling. You feel it. You feel the pull. It is in your chest. It is in your soul. It is in your blood. You want it. You need it. You must have it.

You step forward. You reach out. Your hand is shaking. Your fingers are stiff. You touch the stone. It is warm. It is soft. It is alive. You take it. You hold it. You close your hand. You grip it. You do not let go.

The light fades. The room is dark. The air is cold. The stone is cold. It is heavy. It is dead. It is just a stone.

The man is gone. The door is open. The rain is falling. The mud is black. The trees are bare. You are alone. You are still here. You are still you. You are still Elias. You are still in debt.

You walk out. You walk through the gate. You walk into the rain. You walk into the mud. You walk into the dark. You hold the stone. It is cold. It is heavy. It is yours. You keep walking. You do not look back. You do not look up. You look at your feet. The boots are old. The laces are frayed. You pull them tight. You keep walking. The rain hits your face. It is cold. It is wet. It is real. You are real. You are here. You are alive. You are free. You are bound. You are free.

You walk on. The path is long. The road is straight. The night is deep. The stars are out. They are bright. They are cold. They are far. You are near. You are here. You are now. You hold the stone. It is cold. It is heavy. It is yours. You are Elias. You are here. You are alive. You are free.