The rain taps against the stone. It is a steady, rhythmic sound. You sit in the corner. Your back is against the cold wall. The room is small. It smells of damp wool and old blood. You are waiting. You do not know for how long. Hours have passed. Or perhaps days. Time is thick here. It pools in the corners. It seeps into the stone.

A door opens. Light spills in. It is white. It is sharp. A man walks in. He wears a coat of dark leather. It is soaked. Water runs from the hem. He carries a lantern. The flame flickers. It casts long, wavering shadows. He stops. He looks at you. His eyes are gray. They are tired. He sets the lantern on the table. The glass clinks against the wood.

"Is he still there?" he asks.

His voice is low. It is rough. It sounds like gravel under a boot.

You do not answer. You look at your hands. They are bound. The rope is tight. It bites into your wrists. You have stopped trying to free them. The pain is a dull ache. It has become part of you. You nod slowly. The movement is small. It is the only thing you can do.

The man sighs. He pulls a chair from the wall. It scrapes against the floor. The sound is loud. It echoes. He sits. He leans forward. His elbows rest on his knees. He watches you. He does not blink. His gaze is heavy. It presses down on you. You feel its weight. It is a physical thing. It sits on your chest. It makes it hard to breathe.

"You were a good soldier," he says.

The words hang in the air. They are quiet. They are final. You shake your head. It is a small motion. It is barely visible. You do not want to be good. You do not want to be a soldier. You want to be nothing. You want to be gone.

"You killed him," the man says.

His voice is flat. There is no anger in it. There is no hate. There is only fact. He is stating a truth. It is a stone. It is cold and hard.

You look away. You stare at the floor. The stone is gray. It is cracked. The cracks run like veins. They spread out. They go everywhere. You see your life in them. It is broken. It is scattered. You cannot put it back together.

"He was my brother," the man says.

The words land. They do not hurt. Not anymore. The pain has moved deeper. It is in your bones. It is in your blood. You know this. You have always known it. You killed a man. That man had a family. That family is broken. You are the cause. You are the wound.

"I didn't mean to," you say.

Your voice is a whisper. It is weak. It is thin. It sounds like wind through dead leaves. The man tilts his head. He studies you. He is looking for something. He is looking for the man you used to be. He finds nothing. He finds only the shell.

"Intent does not matter," he says.

He stands up. He moves to the table. He picks up the lantern. He lifts it higher. The light grows brighter. It bleaches the color from the room. It bleaches the color from your face. You squint. Your eyes water. The light is too much. It is blinding. It is absolute.

"Who are you?" you ask.

The question is automatic. It is a reflex. You are not sure you want to know. You are afraid of the answer. You are afraid of the face. You have seen that face before. You have seen it in a mirror. You have seen it in a dream. You have seen it in the eyes of the dead.

The man smiles. It is a sad smile. It is a tired smile. It is the smile of a man who has carried a weight for too long. He steps closer. He is in your shadow. He is in your light. He is everywhere.

"I am the one who remembers," he says.

He reaches out. His hand is gloved. The leather is black. It is stiff. He touches your face. His fingers are cold. They trace your cheek. They trace your eye. They trace your mouth. He is mapping you. He is marking you. He is claiming you.

"Look at me," he says.

You look. You have no choice. His eyes are deep. They are dark. They are bottomless. You fall into them. You sink. You drown. You see your own reflection. But it is not your face. It is older. It is sadder. It is filled with a grief that has no end. It is a grief that has no name.

"You are him," you say.

Your voice is trembling. It is breaking. It is falling apart. The man does not answer. He does not need to. The truth is there. It is in the air. It is in the light. It is in the stone. You are him. You were always him. You are the killer and the killed. You are the hunter and the prey. You are the beginning and the end.

The room spins. The light blurs. The sound of the rain fades. It is replaced by a hum. It is a low hum. It is a deep hum. It comes from inside you. It comes from inside the stone. It comes from the earth itself. It is the sound of the wheel turning. It is the sound of time passing. It is the sound of fate closing in.

You feel a pull. It is gentle. It is strong. It is like a tide. It is like a gravity. You are being drawn down. You are being drawn in. You are being swallowed. The pain in your wrists fades. The ache in your chest fades. Everything fades. Only the hum remains. Only the light remains. Only the face remains.

The man is still there. He is standing over you. He is watching you. His face is clear. It is kind. It is sad. He is not angry. He is not vengeful. He is just tired. He is just done. He has waited a long time. He has waited for this moment. He has waited for you to understand.

"It is over," he says.

His voice is soft. It is like a song. It is like a lullaby. It is the last thing you hear. The words settle into you. They settle into your bones. They settle into your soul. They become part of you. They become your truth.

You close your eyes. The light disappears. The dark comes. It is not empty. It is full. It is heavy. It is warm. It is home. You are no longer in the room. You are no longer in the body. You are no longer in the time. You are in the cycle. You are in the loop. You are in the wheel.

You have escaped. You have not escaped. You have died. You have not died. You are the same. You are always the same. The face is the same. The pain is the same. The rain is the same. The stone is the same. You are the same.

The man walks out. The door closes. The latch clicks. The sound is final. It is sharp. It is clear. The room is empty. The lantern is on the table. The flame flickers. It dances. It dies. The dark returns. It is total. It is absolute.

You are alone. You have always been alone. You will always be alone. The rain continues. It taps against the stone. It is a steady, rhythmic sound. It is the sound of time. It is the sound of life. It is the sound of death. It is the sound of the wheel turning. It never stops. It never rests. It just turns. And turns. And turns.

You are the stone. You are the rain. You are the man. You are the brother. You are the killer. You are the victim. You are the witness. You are the memory. You are the echo. You are the shadow. You are the light. You are the dark. You are the silence. You are the noise. You are the truth. You are the lie. You are the beginning. You are the end. You are the middle. You are everything. You are nothing.

The rain stops. The silence is deep. The silence is heavy. The silence is full. You breathe. You are breathing. You are still here. You are still you. The cycle has not ended. The wheel has not stopped. The face is still there. The pain is still there. The weight is still there. You carry it. You will always carry it. It is yours. It is your burden. It is your gift. It is your fate.

You open your eyes. The room is the same. The stone is the same. The light is the same. The man is gone. The door is open. The wind blows in. It is cold. It is sharp. It cuts your skin. You stand up. Your legs are weak. Your knees buckle. You hold onto the wall. You are alone. You are free. You are trapped. You are saved. You are lost. You are found. You are dead. You are alive.

You walk to the door. You step out. The rain has stopped. The sky is gray. It is flat. It is vast. It is empty. You walk into the mist. You walk into the dark. You walk into the night. You do not look back. You cannot look back. There is nothing to see. There is only the road. It is long. It is straight. It is endless. You walk. You walk. You walk.

The sound of your feet is soft. It is steady. It is rhythmic. It matches the rain. It matches the stone. It matches the heart. It is the sound of the wheel. It is the sound of the turn. It is the sound of the return. You are coming back. You are always coming back. You never leave. You never go. You are here. You are there. You are everywhere. You are nowhere. You are the pale meridian. You are the line that divides. You are the line that joins. You are the line that remains.