The rain did not fall. It drifted.

It hung in the air like a fine grey mist, clinging to the wool of my coat. It soaked into the soles of my boots. I walked. The path was mud. The trees were black silhouettes against a white sky. I carried a satchel. Inside the satchel was a book. The pages were damp.

I am a scholar. I study history. Specifically, the history of the border. The border between here and there. I have written three books. They are dry. They are precise. They are wrong.

I walked for hours. The landscape was flat. A heath. Gorse bushes. Thorny. Red flowers. They were crushed under my feet. I felt them break. I did not stop. My legs ached. My breath was shallow. The cold was inside me. It was in my marrow.

I had come to find a place. A specific spot. A grave. Not a human grave. A marker for a beast.

In my youth, I had seen it. A stag. Large. Antlers like crowns of thorn. I was young. I was arrogant. I believed I could categorize it. I could name it. I could pin it to a page. I had a gun. I had a map. I had a theory.

I fired.

The stag did not die. It looked at me. Its eyes were deep. Dark. Bottomless. It stepped over my body. It walked into the mist. I lay there. I bled. The cold took me. I woke in a hospital. I was broken. My leg was set. My mind was shattered.

I left the university. I left my wife. I left my name. I became a ghost. I wandered. I read. I wrote nothing.

Now I am old. My hands shake. I hold the satchel tight. The rain is colder now. I am close. I can smell the earth. Wet loam. Rotting leaves. Iron.

I see the clearing.

It is small. A circle of grass. The grass is tall. It sways. There is no wind. It sways because it is alive. It is waiting.

I stop.

My heart beats. Thud. Thud. Thud. It is a drum. It is a warning. I want to turn back. I want to run. My body wants to flee. My mind says stay.

I step forward.

The grass parts.

There is a stone. It is low. Flat. Mossy. It is worn. The edges are smooth. It has been touched. By many hands. By many years. It is a mirror.

I look at the stone. I see my face.

I am old. My hair is white. My eyes are tired. I see the stag in my reflection. It is not an animal. It is me. It is the part of me that I killed. The part of me that was wild. The part of me that knew.

I had thought I was the hunter. I had thought I was the observer. I was the prey. I had been hunted by my own ignorance. By my need to control. By my fear of the unknown.

The mist thickens.

I cannot see the trees. I cannot see the sky. I am alone. I am with the stone.

I reach into my satchel. I take out the book. The book is ruined. The ink is bleeding. The words are gone. It is just paper. Soft. Wet. Useless.

I look at the pages. They are blank.

I had written so much. I had defined the boundaries. I had drawn lines. I had said this is here, and this is there. I had said this is real, and this is not.

I was wrong.

There is no boundary. There is only the flow. The water. The mist. The life.

I drop the book.

It hits the mud. It sinks. It disappears.

I feel a lightness. A release. The tension in my shoulders breaks. I let it go. I let the name go. I let the title go. I let the shame go.

The mist moves.

It comes toward me. It is not cold. It is warm. It is like breath. It wraps around me. It touches my face. It touches my eyes.

I close my eyes.

I hear a sound. A low hum. A vibration. It is in the ground. It is in the stone. It is in me.

It is the stag.

It is not here. It is everywhere. It is the cycle. The wheel. The turn.

I had thought the wheel could be stopped. I had thought I could step off. I had thought I could choose.

I could not.

The wheel turns. Always.

I am on the wheel.

I accept it.

I do not fight. I do not analyze. I do not write. I am.

The mist clears.

I see the path. It leads back. It leads to the world. To the towns. To the people. To the life I abandoned.

I look at the stone one last time.

It is just a stone.

I turn.

I walk back.

My steps are slow. They are steady. The mud is deep. It pulls at my feet. I do not care. I am grounded. I am real.

I think of my wife. Margaret. I think of her hands. I think of her voice. I had left her because I was afraid. I was afraid of the chaos. I was afraid of the life that could not be controlled.

I will go back.

I will not explain. I will not apologize. I will simply be there. I will sit in the room. I will listen. I will not speak. I will not try to fix. I will just be.

Is that enough?

Yes.

The rain stops.

The sky is grey. But it is clean. The air is sharp. I breathe it in. It fills my lungs. It fills my blood.

I am tired. I am old. I am broken.

I am whole.

The wheel turns.

I am on it.

I walk.

The path is long.

I do not hurry.

I am ready.

I am home.

The mist lingers.

It clings to me.

I carry it.

I am the mist.

I am the stone.

I am the stag.

I am the hunter.

I am the prey.

I am the one who walks.

I am the one who returns.

The cycle is complete.

The cycle begins again.

I smile.

It is a small smile.

It is a quiet smile.

It is true.

I walk on.

The world is wide.

The world is wet.

The world is alive.

I am part of it.

I am not above it.

I am not outside it.

I am inside.

I am in.

The path curves.

I follow it.

My boots are heavy.

My heart is light.

I am free.

Not free from the wheel.

Free within the wheel.

I understand now.

I understand.

I walk.

The rain returns.

It is soft.

It is gentle.

It washes the dust from my face.

It washes the blood from my soul.

I am clean.

I am new.

I am old.

I am here.

I am now.

The stone is behind me.

The book is in the mud.

The name is gone.

The title is gone.

The legend is gone.

Only the walk remains.

Only the breath remains.

Only the life remains.

I walk.

I walk.

I walk.

The mist rises.

I disappear.

I am gone.

I am here.

I am everywhere.

I am the legend.

I am the distant one.

I am the one who came back.

I am the one who stayed.

I am the one who let go.

I am the one who held on.

I am the one who is.

The end is the beginning.

The beginning is the end.

The wheel turns.

I am on it.

I am ready.

I am whole.

I am free.

I am home.

I walk.