I woke with the taste of iron on my tongue. The dream was still there. Thick. Sticky. A forest of white birches. The trunks bled sap. Not red. White. Like milk. Like bone. I was running. My boots sank into the loam. The trees watched. They did not move. They never move. That is the thing about them. They are patient. They wait for the rot.

I sat up. The ceiling was yellow. Peeling. The fan above me clicked. Click. Click. Click. A metronome for the end of the world. Outside, the sun was already up. Harsh. White. It hurt my eyes. I rubbed them. My fingers felt wrong. Too long. Too pale. I looked at my hands. The knuckles were swollen. Bruised. Purple blooming under the skin. I had hit the wall last night. Again. I always hit the wall. It was the only thing that felt real. The only thing that didn’t try to speak to me.

I am a Sheriff. Or I was. The badge is on the desk. It gleams. Cold. Dead. I haven’t touched it in three days. I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. I only waited. The town is quiet. Too quiet. The birds are gone. The wind is gone. Even the dust seems to hold its breath.

My father is in the chair by the window. He is asleep. Or dead. It is hard to tell. His face is smooth. No lines. No pain. Just a mask. A perfect, blank mask. He was my father. He was a man of few words. He believed in rules. In order. In the law. He believed the law was a shield. A wall. He never knew it was a cage.

I stood up. My knees popped. I walked to the mirror. The man in the glass was a stranger. His eyes were wide. Wild. There was something behind them. Something dark. Something that moved when I didn’t. I looked closer. I saw the birch trees in his pupils. White. Bleeding.

I knew I had to go. I had to find them. I had to see the source. The town is built on the forest. Or the forest is built on the town. It doesn’t matter. It is one thing. A single organism. We are the cells. The bacteria. The rot.

I put on my coat. It was heavy. Wet. It smelled of rain and old blood. I stepped out into the street. The air was cold. It bit my skin. I walked toward the center of town. The square. The old oak tree. It was gone. Stumps only. Fresh cuts. The wood was white.

I saw the men. Three of them. Standing in a circle. They wore gray suits. No badges. No guns. Just hands. They were chanting. Low. Soft. A hum that vibrated in my teeth.

I stopped. I watched. One of them turned. It was Miller. The deputy. He was crying. Tears streamed down his face. He was smiling. A broken, wet smile.

I walked toward them. The ground was soft. Mud. It sucked at my boots. I wanted to run. I wanted to scream. But my legs were lead. My mind was fog. The hum got louder. It filled my head. It replaced my thoughts. It replaced my name.

*You are part of it.*

*You are the root.*

*You are the rot.*

I reached into my pocket. My hand shook. I found the knife. A small one. A paring knife. Sharp. Clean. I held it tight. The metal was cold. It grounded me. For a second, I was just a man. Not a cell. Not a rot. Just a man with a knife.

I stepped into the circle. Miller stopped chanting. He looked at me. His eyes were white. Like the sap. Like the trees.

"David," he said. His voice was wet. Choked. "David, please."

I didn't speak. I couldn't. The hum was too loud. I raised the knife. I aimed for the air. For the nothing. For the space between them.

I slashed. The air didn't cut. But something did. A sound. A crack. Like a branch snapping. The hum stopped.

Silence.

Absolute. Total.

Miller fell. He didn't bleed. He just crumbled. Like dry leaves. Like dust. The other two men froze. They looked at Miller. Then at me. Their faces were blank. Masks. Like my father.

I turned. I ran. I ran back to the house. I ran to my father.

I burst through the door. I didn't close it. I couldn't. I fell to my knees in front of him. I grabbed his hands. I shook him.

"Dad. Dad. Wake up."

His face was smooth. Still blank. But his eyes opened. They were not white. They were brown. Tired. Real.

He looked at me. He looked at the knife in my hand. He looked at the door. At the empty street.

He didn't ask what happened. He knew. He had always known. He just never said it. He lived in the silence. He chose the silence. He chose the rot.

"Go," he whispered. His voice was like dry paper. "Go away."

"I can't," I said. My voice was a rasp. "It's in me."

He nodded. Slowly. A small movement. A finality.

"Take the badge," he said. "Burn it."

I looked at the desk. The badge gleamed. I walked over. I picked it up. It was heavy. Heavier than before. It felt like a stone. Like a seed.

I walked to the stove. It was cold. I struck a match. The flame was blue. Bright. It danced.

I held the badge over the flame. The metal glowed. Red. Orange. Then it turned black. It shrank. It melted. It dripped. A single drop of molten silver hit the grate. Hiss. Steam.

I watched it disappear. The weight in my hand was gone. My hand was empty.

My father closed his eyes. A tear rolled down his cheek. A single, clear drop.

"I'm sorry," he said.

I didn't answer. I stood by the stove. The heat was gentle. Warm. It soothed the cold in my bones.

The forest was still there. I could feel it. It was inside me. In my blood. In my breath. But it was quiet. It was waiting. It was patient.

I knew I couldn't stay. I knew I couldn't fight it. You can't fight a forest. You can't fight the rot. You can only become part of it. Or you can burn.

I chose to stay.

I sat down on the floor. I put my back against the stove. I closed my eyes. I listened.

The hum was back.

But it was different. It was softer. Slower. Like a heartbeat. Like a lullaby.

I opened my mouth. I sang.

It was a low note. A drone. I didn't know the words. I didn't need words. The notes came from my chest. From my gut. From the place where the pain lived.

My father listened. He didn't move. He didn't blink. He was part of the song now.

The sun was setting. The light turned gold. Then purple. Then black.

The shadows lengthened. They crept up the walls. They touched my face.

I didn't pull away.

I let them in.

The trees were waiting. They were always waiting.

I was ready.

I was part of it.

The end.