The moth was dead on my desk. It had been dead for three days. I kept it there. Its wings were torn, gray dust scattered like ash from a cold fire. I held it in the air with tweezers. It was light. It was nothing.

I am the Warden. I wear the uniform. The gray wool is stiff. It smells of damp stone and iron. I have worn it for forty years. My spine is curved. My hands shake. I shake because I am afraid. I shake because I am wrong.

The Hall of Judgment is vast. The ceiling is painted with saints. They look down. Their eyes are glass. They do not blink. I stand before the High Magistrate. He is a young man. His face is smooth. He has not known pain. He has not known the cold. He holds a scroll. The ink is black. It is wet.

"Read," he says.

I do not read. I wait. The silence is heavy. It presses on my ears. It rings. I see my reflection in the polished floor. I am old. I am tired. I am a fool.

I think of Elara. She is gone. She has been gone for twenty years. Her face is in my mind. It is sharp. It is bright. She loved me. She loved me with a fire that burned my soul. She loved me until the end. She loved me after the end.

I did not love her back. Not enough. I was busy. I was working. I was serving the State. I was serving the Law. The Law is a wall. It is thick. It is cold. I climbed it. I reached the top. I looked down. I saw her. She was small. She was far away.

"Speak," the Magistrate says. His voice is flat. It is a blade.

I open my mouth. My tongue is thick. I cannot find the words. The words are stuck in my throat. They are stones. I swallow. I cough. Blood tastes of copper.

"I confess," I say.

The room shifts. The air changes. The saints above turn their heads. They watch. They judge. I am naked. I am bare.

I took the cipher. I found it in the archives. It was hidden in a book. A book on botany. The pages were brittle. The moth was in the book. It had been there for years. It was eating the paper. It was eating the truth.

The cipher was a key. It opened a door. The door led to the basement. The basement was dark. It was wet. It smelled of rot. I found the file. It was a folder. It was thin. It held the evidence.

The evidence was simple. It was a list. Names. Dates. Places. It showed who died. It showed why they died. It showed that the State was not just. It showed that the State was cruel. It showed that the State was me.

I had signed the orders. My signature was there. My hand had made the lines. I had been the hand. I had been the voice. I had been the eye. I had looked away. I had looked down. I had looked at my shoes.

Elara knew. She had seen it. She had found it before me. She had told me. I had ignored her. I had dismissed her. I had called her hysterical. I had called her weak. I had locked her out.

I had locked her in.

I had locked her in the basement. I had closed the door. I had turned the key. I had thrown the key away. I had walked away. I had gone to my desk. I had poured a drink. I had read the news. I had slept.

She died in the dark. She died in the cold. She died alone. She died screaming. I did not hear her. I did not want to hear her. I was busy. I was working. I was serving the State.

The Magistrate leans forward. His eyes are bright. He is curious. He is hungry. He wants the truth. He wants the blood.

"Who was it?" he asks. "Who was the mastermind?"

I look at him. I see my own face in his. I see the hunger. I see the need. I see the lie.

"It was me," I say.

He laughs. It is a short sound. It is dry. Like leaves cracking. "No," he says. "It was the Council. It was the High Court. It was the System. You were just a tool. A blade. A pen. You did not choose. You obeyed."

I nod. I accept this. It is easy. It is light. It is a burden lifted. I am not the monster. I am not the killer. I am just a man. I am just a function. I am just a cog. The cog breaks. The machine runs on.

"I am innocent," I say. "I am just a part."

The Magistrate writes on the scroll. The pen scratches. The sound is loud. It is the sound of my life ending. He seals the document. He signs it. He hands it to me.

"Go," he says. "You are free. You are exonerated. The State thanks you for your service."

I take the paper. It is warm. It is soft. It is a shroud. I walk out. The doors close behind me. The lock clicks. It is a soft sound. It is a final sound.

I am outside. The sky is gray. The rain is falling. It is cold. I walk to the square. The square is empty. The fountain is dry. The stones are wet.

I sit on a bench. I hold the paper. I hold the moth. The moth is dead. Its wings are torn. It is gray. It is me.

I think of Elara. I think of her face. I think of her voice. I think of her love. It was a fire. It burned me. It consumed me. I let it burn. I let it die.

I look at the city. The buildings are tall. The streets are wide. The people are moving. They are busy. They are living. They are free. They are ignorant.

I am free. I am ignorant. I am alone.

I open the scroll. I read it again. The words are clear. The ink is black. The name is mine. It is my signature. It is my confession. It is my absolution.

I am not the monster. I am not the killer. I am just a man. I am just a part. The machine runs on. The machine is strong. The machine is just.

I close the scroll. I put it in my pocket. I stand up. My legs are weak. My knees bend. I lean on my cane. I look at the moth. It is still on the desk. It is waiting. It is watching. It knows. It knows everything.

I walk away. I do not look back. I do not turn. I do not stop. I walk into the rain. I walk into the dark. I walk into the cold.

I am the Warden. I am the Judge. I am the Prisoner. I am the Key. I am the Lock. I am the Door.

The rain falls. It washes the stone. It washes the blood. It washes the name. It washes the memory. It washes the soul.

I am clean. I am pure. I am nothing.

The moth flies. It is a lie. It is a dream. It is a memory. It is a ghost. It is me.

I am gone.