The wool is gray. It is coarse. It sits on your back. It smells of damp earth and old sweat. You are cold. The air in the chapel is still. The candles burn low. They gutter. The wax runs. It pools on the stone floor. You watch the wax. It is white. It is hard. It is brittle.

You are a scholar. You study the texts. You copy the words. You do not question the words. You are careful. You are quiet. The Master sees this. He nods. He likes your silence. He likes your hands. They are steady. They do not shake. You hold the quill. You dip it in the ink. The ink is black. It is thick. It stains your fingers. The stain does not wash out. It is part of you now.

The town is small. The streets are narrow. The mud is deep. It is winter. The snow is thin. It melts quickly. The people walk fast. They do not look at you. They are afraid. You are not afraid. You are tired. You are hungry. The bread is hard. The water is cold. You drink it anyway. Your body needs it. Your mind needs the ink. The ink is life. The paper is life. Everything else is noise.

The Master is old. His face is a map of lines. His eyes are bright. They do not blink often. He watches you. He knows what you think. He knows what you want. He gives you a task. You must translate the old scroll. It is in a dead language. The language is harsh. The consonants are heavy. You read it. You translate it. You write it down.

The scroll speaks of justice. It speaks of law. It speaks of order. The order is strict. The law is iron. The iron is cold. The iron does not bend. The iron cuts. You write the words. You feel the weight of them. They press against your skin. You stop writing. You look at the ink. The ink is wet. It reflects the candlelight. The reflection is small. It is dark.

You think of the boy. His name is Thomas. He was young. His hair was light. He ran in the fields. He laughed. He was gone now. The law took him. The law was iron. The iron did not bend. The iron cut. You wrote the words about the law. You wrote them well. You were proud. You were wrong.

The Master comes to you. He stands over you. His shadow falls on the page. The shadow is long. It covers the words. The words disappear. The Master speaks. His voice is low. It is soft. It is not kind. He asks for the scroll. You give it to him. He takes it. He looks at you. He smiles. It is not a smile. It is a mask. The mask is white. The mask is smooth. The mask hides the teeth.

You continue to work. You work on other texts. They are simpler. They are easier. You do not think. You do not feel. You are a machine. The machine works. The machine does not break. The machine does not stop. You are invisible. You are necessary. You are nothing.

The winter ends. The snow melts. The mud dries. The town wakes up. The people talk. They whisper. They point. They look at you. You feel their eyes. They are heavy. They are cold. You know what they say. They say you are the scribe. They say you write the laws. They say you make the laws. You do not speak. You cannot speak. Your mouth is dry. Your throat is tight. You swallow. The saliva is thick. It tastes of iron.

The Master calls you. You go to him. He is in his study. The room is dark. The curtains are drawn. The only light is from the window. The light is pale. The light is thin. The Master sits at his desk. He has the scroll. He has the gray wool. The wool is on the desk. It is folded. It is neat. It is ready.

He picks it up. He holds it in his hands. He looks at it. He looks at you. He says nothing. He does not need to speak. The meaning is clear. The meaning is weight. The meaning is guilt. He offers it to you. He holds it out. His hand is steady. His hand is calm. He expects you to take it. He expects you to wear it. He expects you to carry it.

You look at the wool. The wool is gray. The wool is coarse. The wool is your back. The wool is your life. You reach out. Your hand shakes. You do not know why. You are strong. You are steady. You are the scholar. You are the scribe. You are the one who knows. You know the truth. The truth is in the ink. The truth is in the words. The words are lies. The lies are law. The law is iron. The iron is cold.

You take the wool. You put it on your back. It is heavy. It is wet. It is cold. It presses against you. It sinks into you. You feel the weight. It is not just wool. It is the boy. It is the snow. It is the mud. It is the silence. It is the fear. It is the hunger. It is the ink. It is the stain. It is the mask.

The Master watches you. He sees you take it. He sees you wear it. He does not smile. He does not frown. He is satisfied. He is done. He closes the door. The door is heavy. The door is solid. The door is closed. You are alone.

You stand in the room. The light is fading. The shadows are growing. The shadows are long. The shadows are dark. The shadows are you. You look at the desk. The desk is empty. The quill is there. The ink is there. The paper is there. You pick up the quill. You dip it in the ink. You write. You do not write the laws. You do not write the order. You write the name. You write the name of the boy. You write the name of the Master. You write the name of the town. You write the name of the wool.

The ink dries. The words are black. The words are sharp. The words are true. The truth is not law. The truth is not order. The truth is pain. The truth is loss. The truth is the weight on your back. You cannot carry it. You cannot put it down. You must wear it. You must be it.

You walk out of the study. You walk into the hall. The hall is long. The hall is dark. The people are there. They are watching. They see the wool. They see the weight. They see the truth. They step back. They look away. They do not want to see it. They do not want to feel it. They want the law. They want the iron. They want the order. They do not want the wool.

You walk to the door. The door is open. The air is cold. The air is fresh. You step outside. The town is quiet. The streets are empty. The snow is gone. The mud is dry. The sun is out. The sun is bright. The sun is hot. You feel the heat. It burns your skin. It burns the wool. The wool is smoking. The wool is burning. The wool is breaking.

You feel the weight lifting. The weight is gone. The wool is gone. The stain is gone. The ink is gone. You are clean. You are light. You are free. You are nothing.

You walk down the street. You do not look back. You do not look down. You look ahead. The road is long. The road is straight. The road is hard. You walk. You walk. You walk.

The sun sets. The sky is red. The sky is dark. The stars come out. The stars are cold. The stars are distant. The stars are indifferent. You are under the stars. You are small. You are alone. You are free.

You think of the boy. You think of the Master. You think of the town. You think of the wool. You think of the ink. You think of the truth. The truth is not in the words. The truth is not in the law. The truth is in the silence. The truth is in the space between the words. The truth is in the breath. The truth is in the beat of your heart.

You stop walking. You stand still. You close your eyes. You breathe in. You breathe out. The air is cold. The air is clean. You are here. You are now. You are alive.

The wool is gone. The weight is gone. The pain is gone. You are empty. You are full. You are the scholar. You are the scribe. You are the one who knows. You know the truth. The truth is simple. The truth is hard. The truth is you.

You open your eyes. The town is dark. The town is silent. The town is waiting. You walk on. You walk into the dark. You walk into the night. You walk into the unknown. You do not fear. You do not hope. You do not wait. You walk.

The road ends. The road begins. The road is you. The road is the wool. The road is the ink. The road is the truth. You are the road. You are the walker. You are the weight. You are the light.

You are free.