You hold the root. It is dry. It is pale as bone.

It looks like a finger.

You are in the Hall of Whispers. The air is thick. It smells of wet stone and old tea.

You sit on a stone bench. Your legs are crossed. You do not move.

A door opens.

It is small. It is wooden.

A woman enters.

She is old. Her hair is white. It hangs loose. It covers her face.

She does not look up.

She walks to you.

She stops.

She looks down.

She looks at the root.

"Do you know what that is?" she asks.

Her voice is low. It is soft. It sounds like wind in dry leaves.

I look at the root.

I tighten my grip.

"Yes," I say.

"No," she says.

She smiles.

It is a sad smile.

"It is a memory," she says.

I shake my head.

"No," I say. "It is a key."

She tilts her head.

She waits.

The air is still.

The silence is heavy.

It presses against my ears.

"It is not a key," she says.

I look at her.

Her eyes are dark.

They are deep.

I see something in them.

I do not know what it is.

It looks like fear.

Or maybe it is pity.

"I need it," I say.

My voice is quiet.

It is steady.

"To open the door," I say.

She laughs.

It is a dry laugh.

It sounds like cracking ice.

"There is no door," she says.

I look around.

The walls are blank.

The floor is stone.

There is no door.

There has never been a door.

I feel a coldness.

It starts in my chest.

It spreads to my hands.

It spreads to my feet.

"I know," I say.

I lie.

I know I am lying.

She knows I am lying.

She knows that I know she knows.

This is the game.

We play it.

We have always played it.

"Let it go," she says.

I shake my head.

"No," I say.

"It hurts," I say.

My hand is tight.

The root is sharp.

It cuts into my palm.

I do not feel pain.

I feel only weight.

The weight of the past.

The weight of the choice.

I made a choice.

I do not remember which one.

I only know I made it.

And I cannot undo it.

The root holds it.

The root is the only thing I have.

If I let go, I am nothing.

I am empty.

I am gone.

"I cannot let go," I say.

She steps closer.

She is very close.

I can smell her.

She smells of rain.

She smells of earth.

She smells of time.

"Look at it," she says.

I look at the root.

It is white.

It is clean.

It is dead.

"Is it dead?" I ask.

"Yes," she says.

"Then why do you hold it?"

I do not answer.

I look at the floor.

The stone is gray.

It is cold.

I see a crack.

It runs along the floor.

It is long.

It is thin.

It looks like a vein.

I follow it with my eyes.

It goes to the wall.

It goes to the ceiling.

It goes everywhere.

I am in a web.

I am in a trap.

And the root is the thread.

"I am afraid," I say.

She stops.

She looks at me.

Her face is soft.

She is not angry.

She is not cruel.

She is tired.

"I know," she says.

"I am afraid too," she says.

We sit together.

We do not speak.

The silence returns.

It is not empty.

It is full.

It is full of things we do not say.

It is full of things we cannot say.

Time passes.

I do not know how much.

It could be a minute.

It could be a year.

It does not matter.

Time is not real here.

Only the root is real.

I look at my hand.

The cut is red.

A drop of blood falls.

It falls on the stone.

It does not stain.

It disappears.

It is absorbed.

The stone drinks it.

The stone is hungry.

It has always been hungry.

It eats our lives.

It eats our time.

It eats our hopes.

I feel a change.

It is small.

It is subtle.

My hand is lighter.

The root is lighter.

I look at her.

She is watching me.

Her eyes are bright.

There is something new in them.

It is not pity.

It is hope.

Or maybe it is warning.

"Let it go," she says.

Her voice is different.

It is stronger.

It is clearer.

It is not a request.

It is a command.

I want to say no.

My mouth moves.

No words come out.

My hand opens.

It opens on its own.

I do not want it to.

I try to close it.

I cannot.

The root slips.

It falls.

It hits the stone.

There is no sound.

There is no impact.

It is gone.

It dissolves.

It turns into dust.

The dust floats.

It rises.

It goes up.

It goes to the ceiling.

It goes away.

I am empty.

My hand is open.

It is empty.

I feel nothing.

I feel everything.

The air is light.

The walls are gone.

The floor is gone.

I am standing.

I am in a field.

The grass is green.

The sky is blue.

The sun is warm.

It is on my face.

It is on my hands.

It is on my chest.

I breathe.

The air is sweet.

It smells of flowers.

It smells of life.

I look down.

There is no root.

There is no stone.

There is no hall.

There is only me.

I am free.

I am alone.

I am here.

I look at my hands.

They are clean.

They are soft.

They are mine.

I feel a tear.

It falls on my cheek.

It is hot.

It is real.

I wipe it away.

I do not know why I cry.

I do not know why I am free.

Freedom is not a gift.

Freedom is a loss.

I lost the root.

I lost the memory.

I lost the key.

I lost the door.

I lost the weight.

I lost the anchor.

I am drifting.

I am floating.

I am nothing.

And I am everything.

I stand in the field.

The wind blows.

It blows through my hair.

It blows through my clothes.

It blows through my soul.

I close my eyes.

I listen.

I hear the wind.

I hear the grass.

I hear the earth.

I hear myself.

I am here.

I am now.

I am free.

The cost is high.

The price is paid.

I paid with everything I had.

I paid with the thing that held me together.

I paid with the thing that gave me shape.

I am shapeless now.

I am formless.

I am open.

I am ready.

I open my eyes.

The sun is setting.

The sky is orange.

The sky is red.

The sky is gold.

It is beautiful.

It is tragic.

It is true.

I walk.

I walk into the light.

I walk into the dark.

I walk into the unknown.

I do not look back.

There is nothing to look at.

There is only the path.

The path is long.

The path is clear.

The path is mine.

I am the walker.

I am the road.

I am the journey.

I am the end.

I am the beginning.

I am the silence.

I am the sound.

I am the root.

I am the tree.

I am the fall.

I am the rise.

I am free.

The wind blows.

The grass sways.

The sun sets.

The night comes.

The stars come.

The moon comes.

I am here.

I am alive.

I am free.

The price is paid.

The debt is cleared.

The story is done.

The story is just beginning.

I breathe.

I live.

I am.