The soup is cold.

You know it is cold. You taste the iron. The broth is black. It coats your tongue. It tastes of earth. It tastes of rot. You hold the bowl. Your hands shake. The bowl is heavy. It is clay. It is rough. You are in the kitchen. The room is white. The walls are stone. The air is still. You do not breathe. You wait.

Marta is watching.

She stands by the door. She is old. Her face is a map. Lines cut deep. Her eyes are small. She sees you. She does not look away. She holds her shawl tight. Her hands are bare. They are wrinkled. They are red. She says nothing. She waits for you to drink.

You lift the spoon.

The liquid sloshes. It hits the rim. A drop falls. It lands on the floor. It is dark. It stays there. It does not dry. You stare at it. You feel a hum. It is in your teeth. It is in your bones. You think of your mother. She is dead. She is in the ground. The ground is cold. The ground is quiet. You miss her voice. You miss her hands. You miss the way she hummed. She hummed when she cooked. She hummed low. It was a sad song. It was a kind song. You closed your eyes. You tried to hear it. You could not.

Marta steps forward.

Her shoes squeak. The sound is sharp. It cuts the air. She stops near you. She looks at the bowl. She looks at you. Her face is hard. Her mouth is thin. She speaks.

"Drink," she says.

Her voice is dry. It sounds like leaves. She does not raise her hand. She does not touch you. She only looks. Her gaze is a weight. It presses on your chest. You feel your heart beat. It beats fast. It beats hard. It hurts. You look at the soup. You look at her. You do not understand. You are tired. You are so tired. You want to sleep. You want the noise to stop. You want the pain to stop. You want to be small. You want to be gone.

You lift the spoon again.

Your hand trembles. The broth moves. It looks like water. It looks like oil. It is thick. It is dark. You bring it to your mouth. You open your lips. You let it fall. It hits your tongue. It is bitter. It is sweet. It is warm. It is not cold. It was never cold. You close your eyes. You taste the flavor. It is strange. It is familiar. It tastes of honey. It tastes of ash. It tastes of time.

You swallow.

The sensation spreads. It goes down your throat. It goes into your stomach. It burns. It is a gentle burn. It is a clean burn. You open your eyes. The room is different. The white walls are gone. The stone is gone. You are outside. You are in a field. The grass is tall. It is green. It sways in the wind. The wind is warm. It smells of rain. It smells of life. You look up. The sky is blue. It is deep. It is wide. There are no clouds. There are no birds. There is only the sky. It is endless. You feel small. You feel free.

You look down.

You are holding the bowl. It is empty. The clay is cracked. It is broken. You look at your hands. They are clean. They are soft. The tremor is gone. You look at Marta. She is not there. The field is empty. You are alone. You stand in the grass. The grass touches your ankles. It is soft. It is cool. You take a breath. The air is sweet. You feel light. You feel new. You feel alive.

Then you see the shadow.

It is behind you. It is long. It is dark. It stretches across the grass. It is not your shadow. It is taller. It is wider. It has no head. It has no hands. It is a shape. It is a void. It is moving. It is coming toward you. You turn. You see it. It is the soup. It is the dark liquid. It is rising from the ground. It is forming a shape. It is forming a face. It is your face. It is old. It is dead. It is hungry.

You scream.

The sound is sharp. It breaks the air. The grass shakes. The wind stops. The sky darkens. The blue turns gray. The gray turns black. You run. You run through the field. The grass pulls at your legs. It is thick. It is sticky. It is like mud. You fall. You hit the ground. The earth is hard. It is cold. You try to stand. You cannot. Your legs are weak. Your arms are heavy. You look up. The shadow is there. It is close. It is waiting. It does not rush. It does not anger. It waits. It is patient. It knows you cannot escape.

You close your eyes.

You wait for the end. You wait for the pain. You wait for the dark. But it does not come. Instead, you feel a hand. It is on your shoulder. It is warm. It is gentle. You open your eyes. You are back in the kitchen. The room is white. The stone is cold. You are sitting in the chair. The bowl is on the table. It is empty. You look at your hands. They are shaking. They are red. They are dirty. You look at the door.

Marta is there.

She is standing still. She is watching. Her face is calm. Her eyes are wet. She is crying. Silent tears. They run down her cheeks. She does not speak. She does not move. She looks at you. She looks at the empty bowl. She looks at the floor. There is a dark stain. It is the drop that fell. It is still there. It is black. It is wet.

Marta steps forward.

She kneels. Her knees hit the floor. The sound is dull. She reaches for your hand. Her hand is cold. Her fingers are stiff. She holds your hand. She holds it tight. She does not pull. She does not push. She just holds. You feel her heartbeat. It is slow. It is steady. It is like a drum. It is like a song. You look at her. You see her age. You see her pain. You see her love. It is heavy. It is deep. It is endless. You realize she has done this before. You realize she will do it again. You realize she has always done it.

She looks at you.

Her eyes are clear. They are bright. They are sad. She speaks.

"It is done," she says.

Her voice is soft. It is quiet. It is like a whisper. It is like a sigh. You nod. You cannot speak. Your throat is tight. Your chest is full. You feel the weight. You feel the love. You feel the trap. You are safe. You are bound. You are alone. You are together. You are free. You are caged.

Marta stands up.

She wipes her eyes. She smooths her shawl. She looks at the bowl. She picks it up. She walks to the sink. She pours the water into the bowl. The water is clear. It is cold. She washes the bowl. She scrubs it. The clay is clean. It is white. It is new. She dries it. She puts it on the shelf. She turns to you. She smiles. It is a small smile. It is a sad smile. It is a kind smile.

She walks to the door.

She opens it. The air comes in. It is cold. It is sharp. It smells of snow. It smells of winter. She steps out. She closes the door. The latch clicks. The sound is final. The room is silent. The air is still. You are alone. You look at the shelf. The bowl is there. It is clean. It is empty. It is waiting. You look at your hands. They are clean. They are still. You look at the floor. The stain is gone. It is dry. It is invisible. It is there.

You stand up.

Your legs are weak. Your body is tired. You walk to the stove. The fire is out. The ashes are gray. The ashes are cold. You open the cabinet. You take out a pot. It is iron. It is heavy. You fill it with water. You put it on the stove. You light the fire. The flame is blue. It is bright. It is warm. You wait. The water heats. It steams. It bubbles. It sings. You wait. The soup will be ready. The soup will be black. The soup will be bitter. The soup will be sweet. You know this. You have always known this. You are ready. You are waiting. You are home.