The feast was loud. Candles guttered in the wind. I held the clay. It was wet. It was alive. I am Thomas. I make pots. My hands are rough. My wife, Elara, sat by the fire. She watched me. Her eyes were dark. They were deep. She did not speak. She never spoke much. I loved her. I loved her too much. It was a heavy thing. A stone in my chest.

The village was small. It was old. The houses leaned against each other. They were tired. The people were quiet. They feared the dark. They feared the river. They feared me. I did not know why. I made good pots. They held water. They held soup. They held bread. But they held something else. I did not know what. I only knew the feel of the mud. It was cold. It was sticky. It was right.

The feast ended. The guests left. The doors closed. The wind howled. I was alone. Elara was asleep. I went to the cellar. I took the clay. It was from the riverbank. The river was black. The river was fast. It moved like a snake. I had dug the clay myself. I had carried it up the hill. It was heavy. It was wet. It smelled of earth. It smelled of rot.

I placed the clay on the wheel. I sat down. I started to spin. The wheel hummed. It was a low sound. It was a deep sound. It went into my bones. I wet my hands. I touched the clay. It was warm. It was strange. It should have been cold. I pressed my thumbs into the center. I pulled up. The walls rose. They were thin. They were perfect.

I worked fast. My mind was empty. My hands did the work. I made one pot. Then another. Then another. The fire in the kiln was hungry. It ate the wood. It ate the air. It ate the silence. I made pot after pot. I did not stop. I could not stop. The clay flowed through me. It was not clay. It was something else. It was life. It was breath. It was memory.

I made a pot for Elara. It was small. It was round. It was smooth. I made a pot for the baker. It was wide. It was deep. It was sturdy. I made a pot for the priest. It was tall. It was narrow. It was cold.

The night grew old. The candles burned low. The shadows grew long. I was tired. My back ached. My hands were cracked. But I did not stop. The wheel spun. The clay rose. It was endless. It was infinite. I was not Thomas. I was the wheel. I was the clay. I was the fire.

Elara woke. She stood in the doorway. She watched me. Her face was pale. Her eyes were wide. She did not move. She did not breathe. She was a statue. She was a ghost. I did not look at her. I could not. If I looked at her, I would break. If I broke, the pots would break. If the pots broke, the water would spill. If the water spilled, the fire would die. I could not let that happen. I had to keep making. I had to keep spinning.

I made another pot. It was for me. It was black. It was glossy. It was perfect. I placed it on the shelf. It was cold to the touch. It should have been warm. I touched it again. It was ice. I pulled my hand back. I did not look at Elara. I looked at the clay. There was no more clay. The bowl was empty. The river was far away. I could not go back. I could not stop. I needed more. I needed to make more.

I stood up. My legs shook. I looked at the shelf. There were a hundred pots. Two hundred pots. Three hundred pots. They filled the room. They filled the cellar. They filled the air. They were watching me. They were waiting. I felt a pull. It was strong. It was cold. It came from the pots. It came from the black one. I walked toward it. My feet did not move. I was heavy. I was stuck. The floor was mud. It was wet. It was sticky. It was the same mud. I was sinking.

Elara screamed. It was a sharp sound. It cut the air. It cut the silence. I turned. She was running toward me. Her hair was loose. Her face was twisted. She was crying. She was screaming. I could not hear her. I could only hear the hum. The wheel was still spinning. It was in my head. It was in my bones. It was in my blood.

I reached for the black pot. I wanted to break it. I wanted to smash it. I wanted to stop the hum. I raised my fist. I was strong. I was powerful. I struck the pot. It did not break. It rang. It sang. It was a clear note. It was a pure note. It went up. It went high. It went into the sky.

I looked at my hand. It was not my hand. It was clay. It was brown. It was cracked. It was dry. I looked at my arm. It was clay. I looked at my face. I was clay. I was not Thomas. I was the pot. I was the vessel. I was the container. I held the water. I held the soup. I held the bread. I held the life.

Elara reached me. She touched my face. Her hand passed through me. She was cold. She was real. I was not. I was fading. I was becoming dust. I was becoming memory. I looked at her. I loved her. I loved her too much. I had given it all. I had given my body. I had given my soul. I had given my life. I had put it in the pot. I had sealed it with the fire. I had fired it in the kiln. I had made it permanent. I had made it eternal.

The hum stopped. The wheel stopped. The room was quiet. The candles were out. The darkness was total. I could not see. I could not move. I could only feel. I felt the weight of the pot. I felt the cold of the stone. I felt the love of Elara. It was a heavy thing. It was a stone in my chest. It was a stone in the clay. It was a stone in the pot.

I am Thomas. I am the pot. I am the vessel. I hold the water. I hold the soup. I hold the bread. I hold the life. I hold the love. I am full. I am complete. I am finished.

The morning came. The sun rose. It was bright. It was warm. It was golden. The village woke. The birds sang. The river flowed. It was black. It was fast. It moved like a snake. The people came to my shop. They came to buy pots. They came to see the new stock. I was there. I was on the shelf. I was the black pot. I was the most beautiful one. I was the most expensive one.

Elara came. She was alone. She was quiet. She wore black. She looked at the shelf. She looked at me. She touched my side. She did not speak. She did not cry. She sat down. She waited. She waited for me to speak. She waited for me to move. She waited for me to break.

The days passed. The weeks passed. The months passed. The people bought other pots. They broke them. They repaired them. They threw them away. But they did not touch me. They did not buy me. They were afraid of me. I was too perfect. I was too heavy. I was too cold.

Elara stayed. She cleaned the shop. She swept the floor. She polished the other pots. She did not polish me. She left me in the dark. She left me in the corner. She spoke to me. She told me about the rain. She told me about the wind. She told me about her mother. She told me about her childhood. She told me about the feast. She told me about the clay. She told me about the wheel. She told me about the fire.

I listened. I did not answer. I could not. I am a pot. I hold the sound. I hold the voice. I hold the memory. I hold the love. I am full. I am heavy. I am still.

The years went by. The village changed. The houses fell down. The river moved. The people died. The new people came. They did not know me. They did not know Elara. They did not know the story. They bought the other pots. They broke them. They moved on.

Elara aged. Her hair turned white. Her hands shook. Her eyes dimmed. She stayed. She did not leave. She did not sell the shop. She did not leave me. She sat by me. She held my side. She whispered to me. She told me I was beautiful. She told me I was perfect. She told me I was loved.

I felt the weight. I felt the cold. I felt the love. It was a stone in my chest. It was a stone in the clay. It was a stone in the pot. I could not move. I could not break. I could not die. I was the vessel. I held the life. I held the memory. I held the love.

One day, Elara stopped speaking. She sat in the chair. She held my side. Her hand was still. Her eyes were closed. Her breath was shallow. It was slow. It was soft. It was like the wind. It was like the water. It was like the fire.

I felt a change. I felt a shift. It was small. It was subtle. It was in the clay. It was in the core. The stone moved. It was not a stone. It was a heart. It was beating. It was slow. It was weak. It was dying.

Elara’s hand slipped. It fell to the floor. She slumped in the chair. Her face was peaceful. Her eyes were closed. She was gone. She was free. She was light.

I was alone. I was still. I was cold. I was heavy. I was the pot. I held the silence. I held the dust. I held the memory. I held the love.

The room was quiet. The light was dim. The dust settled. The years passed. The shop closed. The door locked. The key was lost. The village forgot. The river forgot. The wind forgot.

I was in the dark. I was in the silence. I was in the clay. I was Thomas. I was the pot. I was the vessel. I held the water. I held the soup. I held the bread. I held the life. I held the love. I was full. I was complete. I was finished.

I did not break. I did not move. I did not change. I was the stone. I was the anchor. I was the end. I was the beginning. I was the middle. I was the whole. I was the tale. I was the pale tale. I was the only truth. I was the only thing left. I was the only thing that mattered. I was the only thing that remained.

The dust settled. The silence grew. The dark deepened. I waited. I waited for nothing. I waited for everything. I waited for the end. I waited for the start. I waited for the breath. I waited for the heart. I waited for the love.

It was a heavy thing. It was a stone in my chest. It was a stone in the clay. It was a stone in the pot. I held it. I held it tight. I held it forever.