The dream tastes of copper.

You are in the hall. High vaults. Stone cold against your back. You do not know how you came here. You do not know who you are. You know only the weight of the helm on your brow. It is too heavy. It presses into your skin. It leaves a mark. A red crescent. A scar that will not fade.

You are a soldier. You are the law. You are the hand that holds the sword.

You stand before the throne. The King sits. He is old. His eyes are milky. He does not see you. He sees the shadow you cast. The shadow is long. The shadow is black. The shadow is a beast.

"Guilty," he says.

You do not speak. You cannot. Your throat is locked. Your tongue is a stone in your mouth. You are the food. You are the medicine. You are the thing that must be broken to heal the body.

The court watches. They are silent. Their faces are masks. They are the witnesses. They see you. They do not understand. They see a monster. They do not see the man. They do not see the blood on your hands. Not your blood. The blood of others. The blood you saved them from.

You are misunderstood. The system is blind. The system is hungry. It eats its own children. You are the child. You are the meat.

You remember the village. The fire. The smoke. You ran into the flames. You pulled a child out. You held her until she stopped breathing. You held her until the air left her lungs. You held her until you were empty.

They say you started the fire.

They say you burned the house.

They say you are a demon.

You are the demon. You must be. That is the role. That is the function. You are the vessel for their fear. You are the vessel for their hate. You are the vessel for their need to believe in evil.

You are not evil. You are tired. You are broken. You are worn.

The sword is at your throat. The executioner stands. He is young. His hands shake. He looks at you. His eyes are wet. He sees you. For a moment, he sees the man. Then the King nods. The moment breaks. The mask returns.

"Strike," the King says.

You do not fight. You do not struggle. You stand still. You are the stone. You are the mountain. You are the thing that does not move.

You feel the blade. It is cold. It is sharp. It is a line of light in the dark.

You think of the bread. The stale bread in your pocket. You ate it yesterday. It was hard. It was dry. It tasted of dust. It was all you had. It was enough.

Now it is not enough.

The blade falls.

You do not die.

You wake.

The bed is narrow. The sheets are rough. The air is thin. You are in a cell. The stone is wet. The moss grows in the cracks. You are alone.

You are still here.

The dream was a warning. Or a memory. You do not know. Time is a loop. Time is a circle. You are in the center.

The door opens.

A woman enters. She is old. Her hair is white. Her face is lined like a map of rivers. She carries a bowl. The bowl is clay. It is chipped. It is worn.

She sets it on the floor.

"Eat," she says.

Her voice is soft. It is like wind in dry grass.

You look at the bowl. It is empty. There is no food. There is no water. There is only the clay. There is only the chip. There is only the wear.

You understand.

You are the bowl. You are the vessel. You are the thing that holds. You are the thing that breaks. You are the thing that is empty.

You reach for the bowl. Your fingers close around it. It is warm. It has been held. It has been loved. It has been used. It is worn smooth by time. It is worn smooth by touch.

You hold it to your chest. You do not drink. You do not eat. You hold it. You hold it like a child. You hold it like a prayer.

The woman watches. She does not move. She does not speak. She is the witness. She is the eye. She sees the truth. The truth is hidden. The truth is delayed. The truth is in the holding.

The King comes. He is here. He is in the cell. He is small. He is weak. He is afraid. He looks at you. He looks at the bowl. He looks at your face.

You do not look at him. You look at the bowl. You look at the chip. You look at the wear.

"Kill me," you say.

Your voice is a rasp. It is a broken tool.

"I cannot," he says.

"Why?"

"Because you are not guilty."

The words hang in the air. They are heavy. They are light. They are nothing. They are everything.

"You are not guilty," he repeats.

You laugh. It is a dry sound. It is the sound of leaves scraping on stone.

"I am guilty," you say.

"Of what?"

"Of being here."

He steps back. He touches the wall. He is afraid of you. He is afraid of the truth. The truth is a blade. The truth cuts both ways.

You stand up. Your legs are stiff. Your joints creak. You are old. You are worn. You are the mountain that has been eroded by rain.

You walk to the door. You do not ask. You do not command. You walk.

The guards are there. They hold their spears. They block your path. They are the wall. They are the barrier.

You do not fight them. You do not push. You do not strike.

You open your arms. You show them the bowl. You show them your empty hands. You show them your hollow eyes. You show them the wear. You show them the break.

They hesitate. The spear tips lower. The grip loosens.

They see you. They see the man. They see the soldier. They see the one who held the child. They see the one who carried the burden.

They step aside.

You walk out.

The sunlight is harsh. It burns. It stings. It is too bright. You squint. You shield your eyes.

The castle is behind you. The court is behind you. The King is behind you.

You are in the field. The grass is green. The wind is cold. The sky is wide.

You hold the bowl. It is still in your hands. It is still chipped. It is still worn.

You are free.

You are alone.

You are the mountain.

You are the stone.

You are the silence.

You walk. You walk north. You walk south. You walk east. You walk west. You do not know where you are going. You do not know why you are going.

You know only that you must move. You know only that you must be.

The bowl is heavy. It is light. It is your body. It is your soul. It is your history.

You think of the King. He is still in the cell. He is still afraid. He will never be free. He is the prisoner of his own crown. He is the prisoner of his own fear.

You think of the woman. She is in the shadows. She is in the margins. She is the one who sees. She is the one who waits.

You think of the child. She is gone. She is dust. She is memory. She is the reason.

You are the sacrifice. You are the redemption. You are the price.

The sun sets. The sky turns red. It turns purple. It turns black.

You stop. You sit on a rock. The rock is cold. The rock is hard.

You put the bowl on the rock. You put your hands in your lap. You close your eyes.

You are not a soldier. You are not a law. You are not a monster.

You are a man. You are a man who has been broken. You are a man who has been healed.

The healing is in the breaking. The redemption is in the sacrifice.

You are the bowl. You are the chip. You are the wear.

You are the mountain that remains.

The wind blows. The leaves fall. The world turns.

You are still here.

You are still you.

The bowl is empty.

You are full.