You are the father.

Your hands are clean.

They have been clean for years.

The soil does not stick to you.

It never does.

You are a scholar of the root.

You know the anatomy of the stalk.

You know the vascular bundles.

You know the xylem.

You know the phloem.

You speak of them like names.

Like old friends.

Your daughter sits across from you.

Her name is Elara.

She is tall.

She is quiet.

She looks at your hands.

She is waiting.

The house is old.

The beams groan.

The air is thick.

It smells of damp wool.

It smells of decay.

It smells of something sweet.

The rot.

You call it the Golden Master.

It is a blight.

It is a virus.

It eats the heartwood.

It turns the grain to gold.

Then it turns the gold to dust.

You have mapped it.

You have cataloged it.

You have written the papers.

The papers are in the drawer.

The drawer is locked.

The key is around your neck.

It is cold against your skin.

Elara stands up.

She walks to the window.

The glass is fogged.

She breathes on it.

She wipes a circle.

Outside, the forest is dark.

The trees are standing still.

But they are not alive.

They are monuments.

They are dead.

They are beautiful.

"You are afraid," she says.

Her voice is soft.

It is a question.

It is a statement.

It is a command.

"I am not afraid," you say.

Your voice is dry.

It cracks.

"You are," she says.

She turns around.

Her eyes are wet.

She does not blink.

"I have studied the data," you say.

"The progression is linear."

"The decay is exponential."

"You cannot stop it."

"I can contain it."

"You are lying."

She walks closer.

She stops at your desk.

She places her hand on the wood.

The wood is warm.

It pulses.

You feel the heat.

It travels up your arm.

It enters your shoulder.

It settles in your chest.

It is a small fire.

It is a bright fire.

It is a hungry fire.

"The blight," she says.

"It is not a disease."

"It is a transformation."

You look at her.

You see the gold in her eyes.

It is faint.

It is there.

It was not there yesterday.

It is spreading.

You pull your hand back.

The heat fades.

You are cold again.

"I am the containment," you say.

"I am the wall."

"You are the door," she says.

She smiles.

It is a sad smile.

It is a kind smile.

It is the smile of a child.

It is the smile of a ghost.

"You have always been the door," she says.

You remember.

You remember the first sign.

It was in the attic.

A beam was black.

Then it was gold.

You cut it.

You burned it.

The smoke was sweet.

The smoke was like honey.

The smoke was like blood.

You brought it to the laboratory.

You put it under the microscope.

The cells were perfect.

They were ordered.

They were alive.

They were not human.

They were something else.

They were something new.

You told the university.

They laughed.

They called it a fungus.

They called it a joke.

They called you mad.

They took your grant.

They took your lab.

They took your title.

They did not take your hands.

They did not take your mind.

They did not take the key.

You kept the key.

You kept the truth.

You kept the silence.

You kept Elara.

You kept her safe.

You kept her away from the trees.

You kept her away from the gold.

But the gold is inside.

It is inside her.

It is inside you.

It is inside the house.

The house is breathing.

The walls are shifting.

The floor is rising.

The air is thick.

The air is gold.

Elara looks at you.

She is waiting.

You look at her.

You see the fear.

You see the love.

You see the truth.

You are not the wall.

You are the seed.

You planted the blight.

You brought it home.

You brought it in your coat.

You brought it in your breath.

You brought it in your heart.

You loved it.

You loved the gold.

You loved the perfection.

You loved the death.

You wanted to be part of it.

You wanted to be golden.

You wanted to be immortal.

You wanted to be the Master.

You failed.

You are not the Master.

You are the servant.

You are the vessel.

You are the sacrifice.

Elara reaches out.

She takes your hand.

Her fingers are cold.

Her fingers are gold.

The heat returns.

It is stronger.

It is brighter.

It is faster.

It burns.

It does not hurt.

It feels like light.

It feels like air.

It feels like freedom.

"You can let go," she says.

Her voice is not her voice.

It is a chorus.

It is a wind.

It is a song.

"I cannot," you say.

You are afraid.

You are not afraid of death.

You are afraid of loss.

You are afraid of forgetting.

You are afraid of being nothing.

You are afraid of being alone.

"Nothing is not alone," she says.

"Nothing is everything."

You look at the drawer.

The key is in your hand.

It is heavy.

It is cold.

It is the last thing.

It is the first thing.

You open the drawer.

The papers are there.

The data is there.

The truth is there.

You pick up the papers.

You hold them to your chest.

You feel Elara’s hand on your back.

She is pushing you.

She is guiding you.

She is leading you.

To the fire.

To the stove.

The fire is small.

The fire is blue.

The fire is hungry.

You hold the papers over the flame.

The edge curls.

The edge blackens.

The edge turns to gold.

The gold spreads.

The gold is beautiful.

The gold is terrifying.

You drop the papers.

They fly up.

They do not fall.

They rise.

They turn to dust.

The dust is gold.

The dust is light.

The dust is life.

It fills the room.

It fills your lungs.

It fills your heart.

It fills your head.

You see the forest.

You see the trees.

You see the roots.

You see the connections.

You see the network.

You see the web.

You are in the web.

You are in the web.

You are in the web.

You are the web.

You are the master.

You are the slave.

You are the gold.

You are the dust.

You are the silence.

You are the voice.

You are the father.

You are the daughter.

You are the house.

You are the fire.

You are the light.

You are the dark.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

Elara is gone.

The room is empty.

The air is clear.

The air is cold.

The air is clean.

The gold is gone.

The dust is gone.

The fire is gone.

The key is on the floor.

It is black.

It is rusted.

It is ordinary.

You pick it up.

You put it in your pocket.

You stand up.

Your legs are weak.

Your head is clear.

Your heart is empty.

Your heart is full.

You walk to the door.

The door is open.

The night is dark.

The night is silent.

The night is waiting.

You step outside.

The air hits your face.

It is cold.

It is sharp.

It is real.

You breathe.

You breathe in.

You breathe out.

You are alive.

You are alone.

You are free.

You walk into the dark.

You do not look back.

You do not look up.

You do not look down.

You look forward.

You look at the path.

The path is straight.

The path is long.

The path is yours.

You walk.

You walk.

You walk.

The darkness closes behind you.

The darkness opens before you.

You are in the middle.

You are in the moment.

You are in the now.

You are enough.

You are enough.

You are enough.