The mud sucked at Thomas’s boots with a wet, heavy groan. He pulled free. He pulled the other. The road was not a road. It was a suggestion of a road, erased by rain. He looked at Elara. She did not look back. She walked with the brisk, careless step of a girl who had never known hunger, never known the cold that bites through wool.

You are walking too fast, Thomas said.

She stopped. Her breath plumed in the grey air.

And you are walking too slow, she replied. Her voice was light. Thin. Like ice over deep water.

Thomas looked at his hands. They were red. Swollen. He had been walking for three days. Or perhaps it was only an hour. Time here was a loose thing. It slipped through fingers. He was an exile from the city. He had fled the noise. He had fled the expectations. He had come to the village of Oakhaven to hide. To become no one.

We are not in Oakhaven, Elara said. She looked at him with a strange, distant pity.

How do you know my name?

I know all names, she said. She turned back to the path. Follow. Or be left.

Thomas followed. He had no choice. The fog was thickening. It pressed against his chest. It tasted of iron and old leaves. He was a stranger in his own body. He felt heavy. Anchored. The weight of his exile was not just in his mind. It was in his bones.

They reached the gate. It was made of black iron. It stood open. Beyond it lay the village. The houses were dark. The windows were blind. There were no lights. No smoke. No sound.

It is quiet, Thomas whispered.

Too quiet, Elara said.

They entered. The cobblestones were slick. They slipped under their feet. Thomas stumbled. He caught the wall. The stone was cold. It bit into his palm.

Look, Elara said.

She pointed to a house. The door was ajar. A light flickered inside. Warm. Golden. It pulsed like a heart.

Thomas pushed the door open. He stepped inside. The room was small. A table. Two chairs. A fire. It burned low. In the center of the room, on the floor, lay a book. It was bound in leather. Dark. Old.

What is that? Thomas asked.

Elara did not answer. She stood by the window. She watched the fog.

Thomas picked up the book. It was heavy. He opened it. The pages were blank. Or so they seemed. But as he touched them, words began to appear. They floated up from the paper. They were not written. They were grown. Like moss. Like lichen.

I have seen this before, he said.

You have, Elara said.

Where?

In the last life.

Thomas laughed. It was a dry, sharp sound. There is no last life. There is only this.

Is there?

He looked at her. Her eyes were dark. Deep. They held a sadness that was not hers. It was too old. It had no beginning.

Who are you? he asked.

I am the witness, she said.

To what?

To your turning.

Thomas put the book down. He felt a chill. It was not from the room. It was from within. He looked at the fire. The flames danced. They cast long shadows on the wall. The shadows moved. They formed shapes. Faces. Hands.

This is a trick, he said.

It is a truth, Elara said.

He stood up. He walked to the window. The fog was closer now. It touched the glass. He could see shapes in it. Figures. Walking. They were like him. Like her. They were all walking. All the time.

We are trapped, he said.

We are not trapped, Elara said. We are stuck.

There is a difference.

There is not.

Thomas turned back. She was gone. The room was empty. The fire had died. The book lay on the floor. It was closed.

He ran outside. The village was silent. The fog had swallowed the houses. He could not see his hands. He could not see his feet. He was alone.

Thomas! A voice called out.

He spun around. It was his mother. She stood in the fog. She wore her white dress. The one she had worn when she died.

Mother? he said.

Come home, she said.

It has been ten years, he said.

Time is a lie, she said.

He walked toward her. The ground shifted. It became water. Cold. Black. It rose to his waist. To his chest.

You left, she said.

I had to.

You are coming back.

No.

He pulled away. He kicked out. The water splashed. He gasped. He was back in the room. The book was in his hands. The fire was lit. Elara was there.

You are not a ghost, he said.

I am not a ghost, she said.

Then who are you?

I am the part of you that remembers.

Thomas dropped the book. It hit the floor with a thud.

I don’t remember anything, he said.

You remember the turning, she said.

He looked at his hands. They were clean. Dry. He looked at the window. The fog was gone. The sun was rising. It was bright. Blinding.

What does that mean? he asked.

It means you are here, she said. Not there.

He stood up. He walked to the door. He opened it. The village was there. The houses were dark. But there were lights in the windows. Smoke rose from the chimneys. People were moving. They were alive.

I am not an exile, he said.

No, Elara said. You are a traveler.

He stepped out. The air was fresh. It smelled of rain and earth. He breathed it in. He felt light. He felt free.

But then he looked down. His boots were wet. He looked at the mud. It was sucking at his feet. He pulled free. He pulled the other. The road was not a road. It was a suggestion of a road.

You are walking too fast, he said to himself.

And you are walking too slow, the wind said.

He looked at the village. It was changing. The houses were shrinking. The people were fading. The sun was setting. The fog was returning.

No, he said.

Elara stood before him. She was smiling.

It is time, she said.

I am not ready.

You never are.

He raised his hand. He struck her. He hit her face. She fell. She did not bleed. She dissolved. She became mist. She became fog.

Thomas screamed. He screamed until his voice broke. He screamed until his lungs burned. He screamed into the dark.

The fog closed in. It wrapped around him. It held him. It lifted him.

He was falling.

He was rising.

He was walking.

The mud sucked at his boots.

He pulled free.

He pulled the other.

The road was not a road.

It was a circle.

He looked at the sky. It was black. Stars appeared. They were cold. They were distant. They were watching.

He knew then. He knew the truth. It was not a trap. It was a lesson. He had not failed. He had learned. He had understood.

The weight of his exile was not a burden. It was a gift.

He stopped walking.

He stood still.

The fog parted.

The village was gone.

The road was gone.

He was alone.

He was free.

He closed his eyes.

He let go.

The wind carried him.

He was no one.

He was everything.

He was the witness.

He was the traveler.

He was the turning.

And in the silence, in the dark, in the space between one breath and the next, he smiled.

It was a small smile.

It was a sad smile.

It was a smile of peace.

He walked on.

The mud sucked.

He pulled free.

He pulled the other.

The road went on.

And on.

And on.

Until it was gone.

Until he was gone.

Until the world was gone.

And only the memory remained.

Only the echo.

Only the light.

In the dark.

In the fog.

In the heart.

It burned.

It shone.

It lived.

Forever.

Always.

Together.

Apart.

One.

Many.

Thomas.

Elara.

The Witness.

The Traveler.

The Turning.

The End.

The Beginning.

The Loop.

The Circle.

The Wheel.

The Turn.

The Light.

The Dark.

The Fog.

The Road.

The Mud.

The Boot.

The Pull.

The Free.

The Other.

The Walk.

The Stop.

The Stand.

The Look.

The Know.

The Let.

The Go.

The Wind.

The Carry.

The Alone.

The Free.

The Smile.

The Sad.

The Peace.

The Walk.

The Suck.

The Pull.

The Road.

The On.

The Gone.

The Memory.

The Echo.

The Light.

The Dark.

The Fog.

The Heart.

The Burn.

The Shine.

The Live.

The Forever.

The Always.

The Together.

The Apart.

The One.

The Many.

The Name.

The Face.

The Voice.

The Breath.

The Space.

The Between.

The Silence.

The Sound.

The Word.

The Meaning.

The Truth.

The Lie.

The Dream.

The Wake.

The Sleep.

The Death.

The Life.

The Love.

The Hate.

The Joy.

The Pain.

The Fear.

The Hope.

The Faith.

The Doubt.

The Choice.

The Fate.

The Chance.

The Destiny.

The End.

The Start.

The Middle.

The Side.

The Top.

The Bottom.

The Left.

The Right.

The Front.

The Back.

The In.

The Out.

The Up.

The Down.

The Near.

The Far.

The Close.

The Wide.

The Deep.

The Shallow.

The High.

The Low.

The Long.

The Short.

The Fast.

The Slow.

The Loud.

The Quiet.

The Bright.

The Dark.

The Warm.

The Cold.

The Wet.

The Dry.

The Soft.

The Hard.

The Smooth.

The Rough.

The Sweet.

The Bitter.

The Good.

The Bad.

The True.

The False.

The Real.

The Fake.

The Old.

The New.

The Young.

The Old.

The Young.

The Old.

The Young.

The Old.

The Young.

The End.