The road is white. Not snow. Dust. Fine, pale dust that coats the tongue and the throat. You walk. Your feet are bare. The stones are sharp. They cut the soles of your feet. You do not feel it. You feel the weight of the basket. It is full of stones. Smooth, river stones. You must carry them.

The house is ahead. It is large. It is white. The paint is peeling. The windows are dark. The doors are open. They hang on their hinges. They creak. The sound is like a bone breaking. You stop. You look at the house. You look at your hands. They are grey with dust. They are shaking.

You are not supposed to be here. You are the daughter. You are the one who stayed. The others left. They took the silver. They took the coats. They took the name. You stayed with the house. The house ate you. It chewed your youth. It swallowed your hope. Now you are old. You are the house. The house is you.

A voice calls out. It is low. It is rough. It is familiar.

"Elara."

You turn. A man stands in the yard. He is tall. He wears a coat of dark wool. The wool is torn at the hem. He holds a walking stick. The stick is made of iron. It is old. It is bent.

"Father," you say.

Your voice is strange. It is dry. It is like leaves rubbing together.

He does not smile. He looks at the basket. He looks at the stones.

"You are still carrying them," he says.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I must."

He steps closer. The ground is soft. He sinks into the dust. He looks up at the house. He looks at the peeling paint. He looks at the dark windows.

"It is empty," he says.

"No," you say. "It is full."

He laughs. It is a short, harsh sound. It does not reach his eyes.

"Full of what?"

"Of us."

He shakes his head. He walks toward the door. You follow. The stones in the basket clatter. The sound is loud. It echoes in the silence. The door is heavy. It opens with a groan. The air inside is cold. It smells of rot. It smells of dust. It smells of time.

You enter. The floorboards creak. They bow under your weight. You feel them giving way. You do not stop. You walk to the center of the room. You set the basket down. You sit on the floor. You are tired. Your legs are weak. Your back is bent.

Your father sits across from you. He looks at his hands. He rubs them together.

"I have walked a long road," he says.

"Yes."

"I have seen many things."

"Yes."

"I have seen the world change."

"Yes."

"Did you change?"

"No."

He looks at you. His eyes are wet. They are bright.

"You are the house, Elara," he says.

"I am the house," you agree.

"The house is dying."

"Yes."

"Then you are dying."

"Yes."

He leans forward. He speaks softly.

"Let it die."

You shake your head.

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"Because it is mine."

"It is not yours. It is stone. It is wood. It is dust. You are flesh. You are blood. You are breath."

"I am the wall," you say. "I am the roof. I am the foundation."

"You are a woman."

"I am the house."

He stands up. He looks around the room. The walls are bare. There is no furniture. There is no art. There is only the dust.

"Look at it," he says.

You look. The dust is thick. It covers the floor. It covers the walls. It covers your clothes. It covers your face. You are part of the dust. You are part of the ruin.

"Release it," he says.

"I cannot."

"You can."

"I will not."

He nods. He turns to leave. He walks to the door. He pauses. He looks back at you.

"You are trapped," he says.

"I am home," you say.

He shakes his head. He leaves. The door closes. The sound is final. The silence returns. It is heavy. It presses against your ears. You sit in the dust. You look at the basket. You look at the stones.

You pick up a stone. It is cold. It is smooth. It is heavy. You hold it in your hand. You feel its weight. You feel its cold. You feel its hardness.

You are the stone. You are the house. You are the dust.

You close your eyes. You breathe. The air is thin. It is stale. You breathe in. You breathe out. You feel your heart beat. It is slow. It is weak. It is like a drum being beaten in an empty room.

You open your eyes. The light is fading. The shadows are growing. The house is shrinking. The walls are closing in. The floor is rising. The ceiling is falling.

You are trapped. You are the house. You are the wall. You are the roof. You are the foundation. You are the dust.

You stand up. Your legs are stiff. Your joints ache. You walk to the window. You look out. The yard is empty. The road is white. The dust is settling.

You pick up the basket. It is heavy. It is full. You carry it. You walk to the door. You open it. The air is cold. It bites your skin. It fills your lungs.

You walk out. You walk to the road. You walk down the path. The stones are sharp. They cut your feet. You feel the pain. It is sharp. It is bright. It is real.

You walk. You do not look back. You do not look at the house. You do not look at the dust. You look at the road. You look at the horizon. The sky is grey. The light is dim.

You are walking. You are moving. You are leaving.

The house is behind you. It is small. It is faint. It is a ghost. It is a memory. It is a lie.

You are not the house. You are not the wall. You are not the roof. You are not the foundation. You are not the dust.

You are Elara. You are the daughter. You are the woman. You are the breath. You are the blood. You are the life.

You walk. The road is long. The road is white. The dust is thick. The air is cold.

You walk.

The pain in your feet is sharp. It is bright. It is real. You feel it. You accept it. You own it.

You are alive. You are here. You are now.

The house is gone. The dust is gone. The stones are gone.

You are free.

You walk. The road stretches out before you. It is endless. It is white. It is pale.

You walk.

The sun sets. The shadows lengthen. The night comes. The stars appear. They are bright. They are cold. They are far.

You walk.

The road is white. The dust is fine. The air is cold.

You are free.

You are Elara.

You walk.