The fire starts in the root cellar.

It is not a warm fire. It is a hungry thing. It eats the potatoes. It eats the turnips. It eats the dark.

You are in the shed. You are alone. The iron door is bolted. You know the sound of the flames. You know the smell of burning soil. You do not run. You sit on the cold concrete floor. You watch the light leak under the door. It is red. It is bright. It looks like blood.

You have been a cop for twenty years. You have broken doors. You have broken backs. You have taken men in their nightclothes. You have taken men in their Sunday best. You are good at your job. You are very good.

But tonight, you are not a cop. Tonight, you are a man. And the man is tired.

The fire grows. The heat comes through the wood. It presses against your skin. You close your eyes. You remember the first day. The day you put on the badge. Your father watched you. He did not say anything. He just looked at you. His eyes were wet. He was a farmer. He knew the smell of dirt. He knew the smell of rain. He did not know the smell of this place.

You open your eyes. The light is stronger now. The door is glowing. You stand up. Your legs shake. You walk to the door. You touch the handle. It is hot. It burns your fingers. You pull back. You hiss.

You cannot leave. Not yet.

There is someone inside.

You know this. You have always known it. But you did not want to see it. You did not want to feel it. The heat is a wall. It pushes you back. You lean your forehead against the iron. It is searing. You do not move. You wait.

Wait for what?

You wait for the truth.

The truth is heavy. It sits in your chest. It sits in your throat. It blocks your breath.

You think of Mr. Holloway. He lives on the hill. He has a big house. He has a big car. He has a big smile. He smiles at everyone. He smiles at you. He shakes your hand. He gives you money. He gives you favors. He tells you that you are a good man. He tells you that you are special.

You believe him.

You believe him for ten years.

You take his money. You look the other way. You close the files. You lose the evidence. You burn the photos. You do it for him. You do it because he is rich. You do it because he is powerful. You do it because he promises you a life. A life without the smell of the streets. A life without the sound of sirens.

But the life is a lie.

The fire roars. The wood splinters. The smell of smoke fills your nose. It is sweet. It is rotten. It is the smell of endings.

You remember the girl. Her name is Elise. She was young. She had dark hair. She had big eyes. She looked at you with fear. She looked at you with hope. She told you the truth. She told you what Mr. Holloway did. She told you about the cellar. She told you about the bodies.

You did not listen.

You put her in the car. You drove her home. You did not look at her. You did not speak. You went back to the station. You drank coffee. You filed a report. The report said she was lost. The report said she was confused. The report said she was crazy.

Mr. Holloway sent you a bottle of whiskey. It was expensive. The label was gold. You drank it in one night. You threw up. You went to bed. You slept. You woke up. The world was still there. The world was still spinning.

You are a coward.

You are a monster.

You are the fire.

The door bends. It makes a groaning sound. It sounds like a scream. You step back. You fall against the wall. The wall is cold. The fire is hot. The contrast is sharp. It cuts into you.

You hear a voice.

It comes from the smoke.

It is soft. It is quiet. It is not a sound. It is a feeling. It presses against your mind. It is like a hand on your shoulder.

You know the voice.

It is your own.

Why are you here?

You do not answer. You cannot answer. Your voice is gone. Your tongue is thick. Your mind is fog.

The door breaks.

The heat rushes in. It is a wave. It hits you in the face. It hits you in the chest. It hits you in the soul. You fall to your knees. You crawl. You crawl toward the door. You crawl into the light.

The light is white.

It is not red anymore.

It is pure.

It is clean.

You are in the field.

You are in the field outside the shed. The shed is gone. There is only ash. There is only smoke. The sky is black. The stars are out. The air is cold. It cuts your face. It cuts your lungs.

You are on your hands and knees. Your clothes are torn. Your skin is burned. You look at your hands. They are black. They are shaking. You look at the ground. You see a shape.

It is a hand.

A small hand.

It is Elise’s hand.

It is not there.

It is in your mind.

You stand up. Your legs are weak. You sway. You look at the ashes. You look at the sky. You wait for the sirens. You wait for the neighbors. You wait for Mr. Holloway.

No one comes.

The night is silent.

The silence is loud.

It screams.

You walk. You walk down the hill. You walk toward the town. The town is small. It is quiet. It is sleeping. The houses are dark. The windows are black. You walk past the church. The clock tower is still. The hands are stopped.

You walk past the school. The doors are locked. The playground is empty. The swings are still.

You walk past the jail.

You stop.

You look at the jail.

The jail is a big building. It is made of stone. It is tall. It is strong. It is meant to keep the bad inside. It is meant to keep the good outside.

But the good is inside.

The bad is outside.

You are outside.

You are the bad.

You are the monster.

You are the fire.

You walk to the jail door. You knock.

No one answers.

You knock again.

Hard.

You hear a sound.

It is a lock turning.

It is slow.

It is heavy.

The door opens.

It is Mr. Holloway.

He is in his nightshirt. He is barefoot. His face is pale. His eyes are wide. He does not look surprised. He looks tired. He looks old.

He looks like you.

He walks out. He stands in the dark. He looks at you. He does not speak. He does not move. He just looks at you.

You look at him.

You have waited for this.

You have waited for years.

You have waited for this moment.

You want to scream. You want to hit him. You want to kill him. You want to make him pay. You want to make him feel the pain. You want to make him feel the fire.

But you cannot.

You have no strength.

You have no breath.

You have no voice.

You are empty.

You are hollow.

You are the ash.

He steps closer.

He reaches out.

He touches your face.

His hand is cold.

It is gentle.

It is sad.

"I knew," he says.

His voice is quiet.

It is soft.

It is like a whisper.

"I knew you would come."

You do not understand.

You shake your head.

"Why?" you ask.

Your voice is a rasp.

It is like dry leaves.

He smiles.

It is a sad smile.

It is a tired smile.

"You are me," he says.

You stare at him.

The words do not make sense.

They do not fit.

They do not work.

He shakes his head.

"No," he says.

"You are the part of me that I could not be."

He steps back.

He turns around.

He walks back into the jail.

The door closes.

The lock turns.

It is heavy.

It is final.

You are alone.

You are in the dark.

You are in the cold.

You are in the ash.

You look at the sky.

The stars are bright.

They are far.

They are cold.

They do not care.

You fall to your knees.

You put your hands in the dirt.

The dirt is cold.

It is wet.

It is real.

You dig.

You dig into the earth.

You dig until your nails break.

You dig until your hands bleed.

You dig until you find a root.

It is thick.

It is strong.

It is alive.

You hold it.

You feel the pulse.

It is slow.

It is steady.

It is yours.

You are the root.

You are the tree.

You are the fire.

You are the ash.

You are the soil.

You are the beginning.

You are the end.

You are the truth.

You stand up.

You look at the jail.

You look at the hill.

You look at the town.

You walk away.

You walk into the night.

You walk into the dark.

You walk into the cold.

You walk into the silence.

You walk into the void.

You walk into the self.

You walk into the end.

You do not look back.

You do not stop.

You do not turn.

You walk.

You walk.

You walk.

The night is long.

The night is dark.

The night is cold.

The night is quiet.

The night is yours.

You are the night.

You are the dark.

You are the cold.

You are the quiet.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

You are the truth.

You are the fire.

You are the ash.

You are the soil.

You are the root.

You are the tree.

You are the man.

You are the cop.

You are the monster.

You are the hero.

You are the nothing.

You are the everything.

You are the void.

You are the fullness.

You are the pain.

You are the peace.

You are the end.