The hand trembled. It was not cold. It was not old. It was only heavy. I held it in mine, wrapped in linen, as one holds a dying bird. The veins stood out like roots in dried earth. Dark and knotted. My fingers closed around the wrist. I felt the pulse. Or thought I did. A faint thrum. Like a drum under snow.

My name is Elias. I live in the stone house on the hill. The house has been mine for three generations. Before me, it belonged to my grandfather. He was a healer. They called him a witch. He died with the smell of rot on his breath. I am a healer too. They call me a monster. I do not argue. Arguments cost coins. And coins are hard to find.

The village is below. I can see the smoke from the chimneys. It rises thin and grey. The people there are hungry. They are always hungry. The land is poor. The rain is cold. The crops fail. So they come to me. They do not come to the priest. The priest has no power. I have power. Or so they believe.

I am not a witch. I am a man who listens to the dead. The dead are loud. They scream in the walls. They weep in the floors. I hear them. I have always heard them. It is a curse. Or a gift. I do not know which is worse.

My master is Thomas. He is the village elder. He is old. He is cruel. He sits in the high chair in the hall. He looks at me and I feel small. He does not like me. He needs me. That is the difference.

"Bring it," Thomas said. His voice was dry. Like leaves scraping stone.

I brought the hand. It lay on the table. The fingers were stained with soil. The nails were black. It belonged to a child. I knew it was a child. I knew because the bones were small. I knew because the skin was soft, even in death.

"Who is it?" Thomas asked.

"I do not know," I said.

"Lies," he said. "You know everything. The dead tell you. Do not lie to me, Elias."

I looked at the floor. The wood was dark. There was a crack in the center. I thought of the boy. I had found him in the woods. He was buried. Not deep. The earth was soft. He had been there for days. The rain had washed the dirt from his face. I had covered him again. I had put him back. I had lied to myself. I told myself it was an accident. I told myself he was lost.

"He was hungry," I said.

Thomas laughed. It was a short sound. Sharp. "Hungry. Yes. We are all hungry, Elias. But this is not hunger. This is theft. Someone stole a child. And you found him. And you did nothing. You let him rot."

"I tried to save him," I whispered.

"You tried to hide him. You are a coward. You are a thief. You steal the dead and you keep them. You hoard them in your house. In your walls. In your head."

He stood up. The chair scraped. The sound was loud in the silence. He walked to the table. He picked up the hand. He held it up. The light from the window caught the bone. It glowed white.

"Give me your hand," Thomas said.

I did not move.

"I said, give me your hand. Now."

I extended my arm. My hand was open. I waited. I knew what he wanted. I had always known. He wanted my power. He wanted to be the one who heard the dead. He wanted to control them. I could feel his hunger. It was worse than the hunger in the village. It was a black hole in his chest.

He took my hand. He gripped it hard. His fingers dug into my palm. I felt pain. A sharp sting. Then a cold. The cold moved up my arm. It felt like ice. It felt like blood turning to water.

"Speak," he commanded.

I opened my mouth. No sound came out. I tried to push back. I tried to pull my hand away. I could not. I was rooted to the floor. The dead were screaming. They were screaming louder than before. They were in the walls. They were in the floor. They were in my bones. I could feel them moving. Like worms. Like snakes.

Thomas’s eyes were wide. He was smiling. It was a terrible smile. It showed his teeth. They were yellow. Broken.

"I have it," he said. "I have your voice. I have your ears. Now you are silent. Now you are mine."

The pain stopped. The cold stopped. I was alone in my head. But the dead were still there. They were quiet now. They were waiting.

Thomas let go of my hand. I fell to my knees. My legs had gone weak. I looked at my hand. It was pale. The veins were black. The blood had stopped flowing. Or it had changed. I did not know.

"Get out," Thomas said. He was sitting again. He was looking at the child’s hand. He was turning it over. He was studying it. "Leave the house. Do not come back. If I see you, I will kill you. I have your power now. I am the master. You are nothing."

I crawled to the door. My hands scraped on the stone. I could not stand. I dragged myself. The door was heavy. I pushed it open. The air was cold. It bit my face. I stepped out.

The night was dark. The moon was hidden. The wind was strong. It pushed me against the wall. I looked back at the house. The windows were dark. But I knew Thomas was there. I knew he was listening. He was listening to the dead. He was learning.

I walked down the hill. My feet were bare. The grass was wet. The mud stuck to my soles. I did not care. I walked until my legs gave out. I sat in the dirt. I looked at my hands. They were trembling. I flexed my fingers. I could feel them. I could feel the blood. But it was different. It was slow. It was thick.

I was not dead. But I was not alive. I was in between. The dead were with me. They were not screaming. They were whispering. They were telling me secrets. They were telling me the truth.

The truth was simple. Thomas was not going to be a good master. He was going to be a tyrant. He was going to use the power to crush the village. He was going to take the food. He was going to take the children. He was going to take everything.

And I had given it to him.

I had sacrificed myself. I had thought it was a way to save the child. I had thought if I gave Thomas the power, he would be satisfied. He would stop hunting the dead. He would stop taking the living. I had been wrong. I had been so wrong.

I looked at my hand. The black veins were spreading. They were moving toward my elbow. I closed my eyes. I waited. I did not fear it. I felt a strange peace. The dead were quiet. They were resting.

The village was safe. For now. Thomas had the power. But he did not have the heart. He did not have the love. He had only hunger. And hunger is never satisfied.

I opened my eyes. The moon had come out. It was white. It was cold. It shone on the water in the ditch. I looked at my reflection. My face was pale. My eyes were dark. I looked like a ghost. I looked like a dead man.

I stood up. My legs were strong again. The cold was gone. I felt warm. I felt alive. But I was not the same. I was lighter. I was empty.

I walked back to the house. I did not knock. I opened the door. It was unlocked. I stepped inside. The hall was dark. I could hear Thomas in the room. He was talking. He was talking to the dead. He was demanding. He was ordering.

I walked to the center of the hall. I stopped. I looked at the child’s hand on the table. It was still there. Thomas had forgotten it.

I picked it up. It was light. It was dry. I wrapped it in my shawl. I put it in my bag.

I walked to the door. I did not look back. I left the house. I walked into the night. The dead were with me. They were silent. They were waiting for me to decide.

I walked to the edge of the woods. The trees were tall. They were dark. I went in. The branches caught my clothes. The ground was soft. I walked until I found the place. The place where I had buried the child.

I dug. The earth was hard. I used my hands. The nails broke. The blood came. I did not stop. I dug until I saw the bones. I saw the small skull. I saw the eyes. They were empty.

I took the child out. I held him. He was small. He was cold. I held him against my chest. I felt the life that was gone. I felt the love that had been lost.

I held him until the sun came up. The light was golden. It was warm. I buried him again. I covered him with fresh earth. I put a stone on top. I said his name. I did not know his name. But I gave him one. I called him David.

I walked back to the house. My feet were bloody. My hands were bloody. I did not care. I went inside. Thomas was in the room. He was sitting in the chair. He was pale. He was shaking.

He looked at me. His eyes were wild.

"Go away," he said. His voice was weak. "I do not want you here."

I walked to the table. I put the bag down. I opened it. I took out the child’s hand. I put it on the table.

Thomas looked at it. He did not speak. He looked at me. He looked at his own hands. They were black. The veins were spreading. He was dying. He was dying from the power. He had taken too much. He had not paid the price.

I had paid the price. I had given him my voice. I had given him my hearing. I had given him my connection to the dead. But I had kept my heart. I had kept my love. And that was enough.

Thomas fell from the chair. He lay on the floor. He was convulsing. The black veins were all over his face. He was screaming. But no sound came out. He was silent. Like me.

I stood over him. I did not feel anger. I did not feel pity. I felt only sorrow. He was a man. He was hungry. He was afraid. He had made a mistake.

I turned away. I walked to the door. I opened it. The sun was high. The light was bright. I stepped out.

The village was quiet. The smoke rose from the chimneys. The people were awake. They were working. They did not know what had happened. They did not know that the master was dead. They did not know that the witch was free.

I walked down the hill. I walked into the village. I did not speak. I did not look at anyone. I walked to the church. The door was open. The priest was not there. I sat on the bench. I closed my eyes.

I waited. I waited for the dead to speak. They did not. I waited for Thomas to return. He did not. I waited for the pain. It did not come.

I was alone. I was free. I was empty.

I opened my eyes. The light was fading. The day was ending. I stood up. I walked out of the church. I walked to the edge of the village. I looked at the trees. I looked at the sky.

I took a breath. The air was cold. It was clean. I breathed it in. I felt it in my lungs. It was sweet.

I was alive. I was truly alive. For the first time in my life, I was not listening to the dead. I was listening to the wind. I was listening to the birds. I was listening to the world.

I walked away. I did not look back. I walked into the darkness. I walked into the future. I did not know where I was going. I did not care. I was free.