The letter is dated the first of November. The ink is brown. It has bled into the parchment. You are holding it. Your hands are shaking. You are in the cellar. It is cold. The dampness is in your bones. You are Margaret. You are twenty years old. You are a clerk in the Abbey. You copy ledgers. You count candles. You count grain. You are good at numbers. You are bad at living.

You look at the letter. It is from the Prior. It is not a letter. It is a notice. It says you are dismissed. It says you are ill. It says you are dangerous. It says to leave before the bells ring. You laugh. It is a dry sound. It scratches in your throat. You are not ill. You are not dangerous. You are just tired. You are just sad. You are just missing your brother. Thomas is dead. Thomas is in the ground. The ground is cold. You keep the ground. You keep the silence. The Prior hates the silence. He says it is a sin. He says it is a rot. He wants you to speak. He wants you to pray. He wants you to burn. You do not want to burn. You want to sleep.

The door opens. Light spills in. It is harsh. It is white. You do not look up. You fold the letter. You put it in your pocket. You stand up. Your knees pop. You climb the stairs. One by one. The stone is slick. The air is thin. You are leaving. You are going home. Home is a word. Home is a ghost. You have no home. You have the cellar. You have the ledger. You have the memory of Thomas. He was a boy. He was bright. He had blue eyes. He died of fever. The fever took him in a night. You held his hand. It was cold. It was stiff. You held it until dawn. The sun did not help. The sun was indifferent. The sun is always indifferent.

You step out into the yard. The sky is grey. The trees are bare. The wind is sharp. It cuts your face. You feel the cold. You welcome it. The cold is honest. The cold does not lie. The cold does not ask you to be holy. The cold just is. You walk to the gate. The gate is heavy. It is iron. It is rusted. You push it. It groans. It opens. The world is outside. It is vast. It is empty. You are small. You are alone.

You walk to the village. The path is muddy. The mud is black. It sticks to your shoes. You pull them out. Again. And again. The villagers watch. They do not speak. They whisper. They point. They fear you. They think you are mad. They think you are cursed. They are right. You are cursed. You are cursed by grief. Grief is a machine. It runs on loss. It produces pain. It never stops. It turns and turns. It grinds the soul. It breaks the bone. You are the fuel. You are the fire. You are the ash.

You reach the square. The market is closed. The stalls are covered. The canvas is wet. The smell is of rain and rot. You see a woman. She is old. She is selling herbs. She looks at you. Her eyes are kind. She sees your face. She sees the mask. She sees the crack. She reaches out. She touches your arm. You flinch. You pull away. You are afraid. You are afraid of touch. You are afraid of care. Care is a noose. Care is a chain. You break the chain. You run. You run to the forest. The forest is dark. The trees are tall. They are like pillars. They hold up the sky. You hide in the roots. You hug your knees. You breathe. In. Out. In. Out. The air is wet. The air is cold. You are safe. You are alone.

The sun sets. The night comes. The stars appear. They are cold. They are distant. They do not care. You look at them. You see Thomas. He is a star. He is bright. He is far. He is gone. You cry. The tears are hot. They fall on the moss. The moss drinks them. The moss is dark. The moss is soft. You lie down. You close your eyes. You dream. In the dream, Thomas is alive. He is young. He is laughing. He is running. He is free. He looks at you. He smiles. He says nothing. He does not need to say. He knows. You know. The dream is a lie. The dream is a trap. You wake up. The dark is absolute. The cold is absolute. You are back. You are in the cellar of your mind. The machine is running. The gears are turning. The noise is loud. The pain is sharp.

You stand up. You walk back. You go to the Abbey. You cannot leave. You cannot be free. Freedom is a cage. Freedom is a death. You belong to the past. You belong to the grief. You belong to the machine. The gate is closed. You knock. No one answers. You wait. The hour passes. The night deepens. The wind howls. The wind is a voice. The wind is a warning. It says go. It says stay. It says burn. You stay. You sit on the step. The stone is cold. It seeps into your skin. It numbs you. It saves you. You are numb. You are empty. You are nothing.

The morning comes. The light is pale. The birds sing. The song is bright. The song is cruel. It mocks you. It sings of life. It sings of joy. You hate it. You hate the life. You hate the joy. You hate the sun. The sun is an enemy. The sun reveals the dirt. The sun reveals the rot. You close your eyes. You block the light. You block the world. You are in the dark. The dark is your friend. The dark is your mother. The dark holds you. The dark keeps you.

The Prior comes. He is loud. He is angry. He yells at you. He calls you a sinner. He calls you a devil. He says you are a plague. He says you must be purged. He takes you by the arm. His grip is tight. It hurts. You do not fight. You do not speak. You let him pull you. He drags you to the chapel. The chapel is white. The white is blinding. The white is sterile. The white is dead. The candles are lit. The flame is blue. The flame is cold. The flame is hungry.

He puts you on the altar. The stone is hard. The stone is cold. He holds a knife. The knife is silver. The knife is sharp. The knife is clean. He looks at you. His eyes are empty. His eyes are dead. He is a tool. He is a part of the machine. He is the blade. You are the meat. You look at him. You see his fear. He is afraid of you. He is afraid of the dark. He is afraid of the silence. You are not afraid. You are calm. You are still. You are ready.

He raises the knife. The air is still. The time is stopped. The world is held. You breathe. In. Out. You think of Thomas. You think of the snow. You think of the cold. You think of the peace. The peace is a door. The door is open. You step through. The knife falls. It hits the stone. It rings. The sound is clear. The sound is pure. The sound is the end.

You die. You do not feel the pain. You feel the release. The machine stops. The gears lock. The noise fades. The silence comes. The silence is heavy. The silence is thick. The silence is real. You are gone. You are not here. You are in the dark. You are in the cold. You are with Thomas. You are free.

But the letter remains. The letter is in the pocket. The letter is the proof. The letter is the record. The letter is the truth. The truth is that you were not ill. The truth is that you were not dangerous. The truth is that you were just sad. The truth is that the system was wrong. The system was cruel. The system was blind. The system is a machine. The machine is broken. The machine is evil. The machine will continue. The machine will grind. The machine will eat. The machine will never stop.

You are dead. But you are not gone. You are in the ink. You are in the paper. You are in the word. The word is a seed. The seed is in the ground. The ground is cold. The ground is dark. The seed will not grow. The seed will rot. The rot will spread. The rot will infect. The rot is you. The rot is the grief. The rot is the memory. The memory is eternal. The memory is a curse. The curse is the loop. The loop is the circle. The circle is the cage. The cage is the heart. The heart is the machine. The machine is the soul. The soul is the dust. The dust is the end. The end is the beginning. The beginning is the end. The end is now.

You are Margaret. You are the clerk. You are the ghost. You are the shadow. You are the silence. You are the cold. You are the dark. You are the truth. The truth is that you are alone. The truth is that no one comes. The truth is that the bells do not ring. The truth is that the light does not shine. The truth is that the machine runs. The machine runs on you. The machine runs on us. The machine runs on all of us. We are the fuel. We are the fire. We are the ash. We are the dust. We are the nothing. We are the end.

The letter is still in the pocket. The ink is dry. The paper is old. The words are clear. The words are sharp. The words are a wound. The wound is open. The wound is bleeding. The blood is black. The blood is cold. The blood is the life. The life is the death. The death is the life. The life is the loop. The loop is the fate. The fate is the stone. The stone is the heart. The heart is the cage. The cage is the soul. The soul is the machine. The machine is the end. The end is the silence. The silence is the truth. The truth is the cold. The cold is the dark. The dark is the night. The night is the eternal. The eternal is the now.

You are here. You are there. You are everywhere. You are nowhere. You are the word. You are the sound. You are the breath. You are the life. You are the death. You are the machine. You are the fuel. You are the fire. You are the ash. You are the dust. You are the nothing. You are the everything. You are the end.

The end.