The iron gate was rusted shut.

I stood before it. The sun was low. It painted the stone gray. My hands were cold. I wore a rough wool coat. It smelled of damp earth and old smoke. I had walked for days. My feet bled inside my boots. I did not stop. I could not stop.

The courtyard was empty. The grass grew tall. It was wild. It had forgotten the footpaths. A single window stood open on the second floor. A curtain moved. Thin. White. Like a ghost. Or a memory.

I remembered the trial. It was three years ago. The courtroom was bright. Too bright. The judge sat high. He wore black. His voice was calm. He said I was guilty. I said I was not. He did not care. He looked at me. He saw a thing. A weight to be moved.

I had loved him. That was the crime. Not a crime. A fact. But the law does not like facts. It likes order. He was the King’s man. I was a peasant’s daughter. Or so they said. I did not care what they said. I only cared for his hand. His cold hand. His quiet eyes.

He told me to leave. He said it with tears in his eyes. He said the law would break me. He said he could not watch it happen. I said I would stay. He pushed me. Gently. But firmly. He locked the door. I heard the latch click. It was a small sound. It sounded like a bone breaking.

I ran. I ran until the city was gone. I lived in the woods. I ate roots. I drank from streams. I wore the skin of a deer. I became quiet. I became still. I became part of the tree line.

Now I am here. The gate is rusted. I pull at it. The metal groans. It does not open. I lean my shoulder against it. I push. My muscles burn. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps. I am tired. I am so tired.

The window closes. The curtain stops moving.

I sit on the cold stone. The wind picks up. It blows across the square. It whistles through the broken eaves. I look at the gate. The rust is orange. It looks like blood. It looks like dried blood.

I think of his face. Not the face from the trial. Not the face that pushed me away. I think of his face in the garden. Years before. We sat on a bench. The roses were red. He read a book. I watched the bees. He looked up. He smiled. It was a small smile. It was real.

Why did he do it? Why did he let them take me? Or did he let them? Or was he just as trapped as I was? The court is a cage. The King is the key. But the key is heavy. And the hand that holds it is shaking.

I look at my hands. They are rough. They are stained with dirt. They are not the hands of a lady. They are not the hands of a woman who loved a nobleman. They are the hands of a survivor.

I stand up. My knees crack. I walk to the side of the house. There is a drainpipe. It is old. It is bent. I climb it. The metal is cold. It bites into my gloves. I reach the window. I lift the latch. It sticks. I pull. It opens.

I step inside.

The room is dark. Dust motes dance in the light from the window. The air is stale. It smells of mold and silence. There is a chair. It is overturned. I right it. I sit.

I wait.

Time passes. I do not know how much. An hour. A day. The light changes. The sun sets. The shadows lengthen. They creep across the floor. They touch my feet. They touch my heart.

I hear a sound. Footsteps. Heavy. Slow. They come from the hall. They stop outside the door.

I hold my breath.

The handle turns. The door opens.

A man enters. He is old. His hair is white. His face is lined. He looks tired. He leans on a cane. He is the King. Or what is left of him.

He sees me. He does not gasp. He does not shout. He looks at me with a strange calm. He looks at my rough clothes. He looks at my dirty hands. He looks at my face.

He closes the door. The latch clicks.

He walks to the window. He pulls the curtain back. The night is dark. The moon is out. It is full. It is cold.

He turns to me. He does not speak. I do not speak. We are two ghosts in a room.

He sits in the chair. He puts his cane aside. He looks at his hands. They are trembling. He is old. The power has left him. He is just a man.

I look at him. I do not see the judge. I do not see the King. I see a man who is afraid.

I stand up. I walk to him. I stop in front of him. I look down at him. He looks up at me. His eyes are wet.

I do not hit him. I do not scream. I take his hand. His hand is cold. It is like the hand I remembered. The hand in the garden. The hand in the trial.

I squeeze it. Hard.

He flinches. But he does not pull away.

I feel the truth of it. It was not my love that broke him. It was his fear. He was afraid of the law. He was afraid of the people. He was afraid of himself. He broke me to save himself. And in saving himself, he lost everything.

I see it now. I see the mirror. I am not the victim. I am the mirror. I reflect his cowardice. I reflect his fear. I am the thing he could not look at. So he locked me away. He locked me out.

But I am here.

I release his hand. I sit back down. The room is quiet. The wind howls outside. It sounds like a wolf. Or a man.

He looks at me. He looks at the floor. He looks at the wall.

I think of the gate. I think of the rust. I think of the roses.

I do not hate him. Hate is a fire. I am too cold for fire. I am ice. I am stone.

I look at him. I see the end of him. The power is gone. The crown is gone. He is alone. I am alone. We are the same.

The light fades. The room becomes dark. I can no longer see his face. I can only see the shape of him. The shape of my past.

I close my eyes. I breathe. In. Out.

I am not waiting for him to speak. I am not waiting for an apology. I am not waiting for justice. Justice is a lie. Justice is a story we tell to feel safe.

I am waiting for myself.

I feel the weight of it. The years. The hunger. The cold. It is heavy. But it is mine.

I open my eyes. The room is pitch black. I can feel the air moving. I can feel the dust settling.

I stand up. I walk to the door. I put my hand on the handle.

I do not open it. Not yet.

I think of the tree. The one in the woods. The one I leaned against. The bark was rough. It was warm in the sun. It was cold in the rain. It did not care about kings. It did not care about laws. It just grew.

I am like the tree. I have grown. I have survived. I am here.

I open the door.

The hall is dark. The stairs are steep. I walk down them. One by one. My feet are steady.

I walk out the front door. The air is cold. It bites my face. I breathe it in. It fills my lungs.

The gate is open. I did not open it. The wind must have. Or time. Or fate.

I walk through it. The street is empty. The houses are dark. The city sleeps.

I walk away. I do not look back. I do not need to look back. The past is behind me. It is dead.

I walk into the night. I walk into the unknown.

I am free. Not because I escaped. But because I let go. I let go of the anger. I let go of the love. I let go of the need for him to see me. To know me. To pay for it.

He is gone. I am here.

The stars are out. They are bright. They are indifferent. They do not judge. They just are.

I walk. My feet do not bleed anymore. Or maybe they do. I do not care.

The road is long. It stretches out before me. It is gray. It is silent.

I am alone.

I am whole.

The night is deep. The world is quiet. I am part of it. I am part of the dark. I am part of the silence.

I keep walking.