You wake in the cold. The stone bites your back. It is an old castle. Or a prison. It feels like both. The air tastes of rust and wet wool. You do not know your name. You do not know why you are here. You only know the weight. It sits on your chest. It is heavy. It is iron. It is yours.

The door opens. Light floods in. It is blinding. A woman stands there. She is tall. She wears gray. Her hair is white. She looks at you. Her eyes are flat. They do not blink.

"Time to work," she says.

Her voice is dry. Like sand on a stone. You stand. Your legs shake. You walk behind her. She does not look back. You follow. The hallway is long. It is dark. Shadows stretch out like fingers. They touch your ankles.

You arrive at a room. It is circular. In the center is a table. On the table is a blade. It is long. It is silver. It does not shine. It looks dead. It looks hungry.

"Pick it up," the woman says.

You do not move. Your hands are at your sides. Your fingers are cold.

"I said, pick it up."

You reach out. Your hand trembles. You touch the handle. It is warm. It is wet. It feels like a pulse. You lift it. It is light. Too light. It feels like air. It feels like nothing.

"Cut," she says.

You look at the blade. You look at her. She does not move. She waits.

"I can't," you say.

Your voice is small. It cracks.

"You can," she says. "You must."

The room is silent. The silence is loud. It presses against your ears. You see the edge of the blade. It is thin. It is sharp. You think of your sister. You do not know her name. But you know her face. She is young. She has red hair. She is smiling. You do not know why you are cutting. You do not know what you are cutting. You only know you must.

You raise the blade. Your arm rises. It feels like it is made of lead. You bring it down.

Nothing happens.

The air does not break. The sound does not come. You are still holding the blade. You are still standing. The woman is still watching.

"Again," she says.

You swing. Again. Nothing.

"Again."

You swing. Again. Nothing.

Sweat runs down your face. It stings your eyes. Your lungs burn. You swing again. And again. And again. The blade does not cut. It does not hurt. It does not break. It is just metal. It is just weight.

"Stop," the woman says.

You drop the blade. It clatters on the stone. The sound is sharp. It echoes. It hurts.

"Go to sleep," she says.

She walks away. The door closes. The light dies. The darkness returns. You sit on the floor. You breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

***

You wake again. The cold is deeper. The stone is harder. You are in the same room. The table is empty. The blade is gone. The woman is there. She sits in a chair. She holds a cup. Steam rises from it.

"Did you cut?" she asks.

"No."

"Good."

You look at her. You do not understand.

"If you had cut, you would be dead," she says.

"You are the guard," you say.

"I am the witness," she says.

She sips her tea. She looks at the wall. The wall is bare. There are no windows. There is no sky.

"Why am I here?" you ask.

"Because you chose it," she says.

"I didn't choose this."

"You chose the blade," she says. "You chose to hold it. You chose to swing it. You chose to stop. That is the choice. That is the self."

You feel a knot in your throat. You swallow. It is hard.

"I remember," you say. "My sister. She was sick. I wanted to save her. I thought the blade would help. I thought I could cut away the sickness. I thought I could cut away the pain."

The woman nods. She does not speak.

"I was afraid," you say. "I was afraid of losing her. I was afraid of the silence. I was afraid of the end. So I tried to fight it. I tried to conquer it. I swung the blade. But the blade was empty. I was empty."

"Does that make sense?" she asks.

"I don't know."

"Look at your hands."

You look down. Your hands are open. They are clean. There is no blood. There is no dirt. They are just hands. They are soft. They are human.

"Where is the blade?" you ask.

"Inside you," she says.

You feel it. A faint hum. A low vibration. It is in your chest. It is in your bones. It is not sharp. It is not cold. It is warm. It is alive.

"I cannot take it out," you say.

"No," she says. "You cannot."

"Then I must carry it."

"Yes."

You close your eyes. You feel the weight. It is not heavy anymore. It is solid. It is real. It is part of you.

***

The days pass. They are the same. You wake. You sit. You wait. The woman comes. She brings food. She brings water. She does not speak much. You do not speak much.

But you are different. The cold is not so bad. The stone is not so hard. You are not fighting the room. You are in the room. You are with the room.

One day, she brings a mirror. It is small. It is round. She places it on the table.

"Look," she says.

You pick it up. You look at your face. You do not know who you are. You do not know your name. But you see your eyes. They are tired. They are sad. But they are clear.

"Who are you?" you ask the reflection.

The reflection does not answer.

"I am the one who stopped," you say.

The reflection smiles. It is faint. It is sad. It is true.

The woman takes the mirror. She leaves. The door closes.

You are alone. The silence is not loud. It is soft. It is like a blanket. It covers you. You breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

You stand up. Your legs are strong. Your back is straight. You walk to the door. You put your hand on the handle. It is cold. It is metal.

You turn it.

It does not open.

You push.

It does not move.

You pull.

It does not break.

You are not going anywhere. You are not escaping. You are not conquering. You are staying. You are holding the weight. You are carrying the blade.

The door stays closed. The darkness stays. The silence stays.

But you are here.

***

You wake in the cold. The stone bites your back. It is an old castle. Or a prison. It feels like both. The air tastes of rust and wet wool.

The door opens. Light floods in. It is blinding. A woman stands there. She is tall. She wears gray. Her hair is white. She looks at you. Her eyes are flat.

"Time to work," she says.

Her voice is dry. Like sand on a stone. You stand. Your legs do not shake. You walk behind her. She does not look back. You follow. The hallway is long. It is dark. Shadows stretch out like fingers. They do not touch your ankles. They stay on the wall.

You arrive at the room. It is circular. In the center is a table. On the table is a blade. It is long. It is silver. It does not shine. It looks dead. It looks hungry.

"Pick it up," she says.

You do not move. Your hands are at your sides.

"I said, pick it up."

You reach out. Your hand is steady. You touch the handle. It is warm. It is wet. It feels like a pulse. You lift it. It is light. Too light. It feels like air. It feels like nothing.

"Cut," she says.

You look at the blade. You look at her. She does not move. She waits.

"No," you say.

Your voice is steady. It does not crack.

"Must you?" she asks.

"No," you say. "I choose not to."

You lower the blade. You place it on the table. You step back.

The room is silent. The silence is soft. It is not loud. It is not pressing. It is just air.

The woman looks at you. Her eyes are not flat. They are deep. They are dark.

"Good," she says.

She walks away. The door closes. The light dies. The darkness returns.

You sit on the floor. You breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

You feel the weight. It is not on your chest. It is in your hands. It is in your heart. It is yours. You chose it. You chose to hold it. You chose to let it be.

The cold is deep. The stone is hard. But you are warm. You are alive.

You close your eyes. You do not sleep. You wait.

The blade is still there. It is still silver. It is still dead. But it is not hungry. It is quiet.

You are quiet.

The door does not open. The light does not come. The woman does not return.

You are alone.

You are free.

The weight is heavy. It is eternal. It is yours.

You breathe. In. Out.

The dark holds you. The dark loves you.

You do not fight. You do not run. You do not cut.

You are.

That is enough.

That is everything.

The blade rests on the table. It catches the faint light from nowhere. It glows. It is not silver. It is gold. It is soft. It is warm.

You look at it. You do not touch it. You do not need to.

You are the blade. You are the hand. You are the cut. You are the heal.

You are the silence after the strike.

You are the stillness after the storm.

The stone is cold. The air is wet. The night is long.

But you are here.

You are here.

You are here.