You dream of ink.

Black water. It flows in your veins. You are not afraid. You are full.

The bell rings.

It is a dull sound. Wooden. Heavy.

You wake.

The room is cold. The stone floor bites your feet. You are in the cellar. You are always in the cellar.

Thomas is above you. You can hear him breathing. It is a wet sound. A rattling sound.

He is dying.

You know this. You have known it for three days. But you do not say it. You cannot say it. To say it is to break the seal.

You climb the stairs. The wood groans under your weight. You are light. You are hollow.

The kitchen is dark. The fire is low. Thomas sits at the table. He holds a cup. His hands shake. The tea spills. Brown drops hit the white cloth.

"Margaret."

His voice is thin. Like paper.

"Thomas."

You do not sit. You stand. You look at him. You look for the mark. You have looked for it for years.

The mark is gone.

It was there yesterday. A black spot on his wrist. Like a bruise. Like a stamp.

Now it is clean.

Your heart stops. Then it starts again. A kick. A hammer.

"Where is it?" you ask.

Your voice is steady. You practice steadiness. You practice it in the mirror. You practice it when the wind howls.

"What?" Thomas asks. He looks confused. He blinks.

"The mark. On your wrist."

He looks down. He turns his arm. He frowns.

"I do not know what you mean."

You step closer. The air is thick. It smells of rot and rosemary.

"You had it. You showed me. You said it was a curse. You said it would take me."

Thomas smiles. It is a sad smile. A tired smile.

"Margaret. I am an old man. I dream strange things. I forget things. The fever takes my mind."

The fever.

You hate the fever. It is a thief. It steals your memories. It steals his.

"It is not the fever," you say.

"It is everything," he says.

He reaches for your hand. His fingers are cold. They are dry.

"Let it go, my love. Please. It hurts me to see you fight it."

You pull your hand away.

"I will not let it go."

"You must."

"I will find it."

"Find what?"

"The truth."

He laughs. It is a cough. Blood flecks his lips.

"The truth is that I am dying. And you are alive. That is the only truth that matters."

You turn away. You go to the window. The glass is thick. The world outside is gray. The village of Oakhaven lies below. The roofs are slate. The chimneys are stone.

Smoke rises.

It is a sign.

You always see the smoke. It means something is burning. It means something is being hidden.

You must go.

"Thomas," you say.

"I am sleeping," he says. His eyes close.

You leave.

The door is heavy. It slams shut. The sound echoes in the empty hall.

You walk outside. The air is sharp. It cuts your face.

The village is quiet. No one is awake. Or no one is speaking.

You go to the square. The well is in the center. It is deep. It is dark.

You look into it.

You see your face.

It is not your face.

It is old. It is lined. It is full of shadow.

"Who are you?" you whisper.

The water ripples. The face smiles.

"You are the keeper," it says.

The voice is not in your head. It is in the air. It is in the stone.

You wake up.

You are in the cellar again.

The ink is in your veins.

You are not alone.

Eleanor is there.

She stands in the corner. She holds a candle. The flame is blue.

Eleanor is your ally. She is also your enemy. She is the one who gave you the book. She is the one who taught you to read the signs.

She is the one who lies.

"Good morning," she says.

She does not look at you. She looks at the wall.

"Where are we?" you ask.

"We are here," she says.

"We are in the cellar."

"No. We are in the trap."

The word hits you. A physical blow.

"What trap?"

"Your own."

She turns to you. Her eyes are bright. They are wet.

"Margaret. Listen to me. You are not hunting a curse. You are not hunting a mark. You are hunting a memory."

"I am hunting the truth."

"The truth is a lie."

She steps forward. The candle flickers.

"You remember the night. You remember the fire. You remember the child."

You remember.

Yes.

You do.

There was a fire. In the barn. There was a child. Your child. Thomas’s child.

You were there. You tried to save him. You burned. You were saved. Thomas was saved.

But the child was not.

The mark on Thomas’s wrist was not a curse. It was a scar. It was the place where he held the child. It was the place where the heat touched him.

You have been fighting a ghost.

You have been fighting your own grief.

"You know," you say. Your voice is small.

"I have always known."

Eleanor walks to you. She takes your face in her hands. Her hands are warm.

"Why did you hide it from me?" you ask.

"Because you would not stop. You would have killed him. You would have killed yourself. You needed to lose it. You needed to find it again."

"Why did you let me think it was a curse?"

"Because fear is stronger than grief. Fear keeps you alive. Grief kills you."

You look at her. You see the sorrow in her eyes. You see the love. It is deep. It is dark.

"I am not afraid," you say.

"You are terrified."

"Maybe. But I am not afraid of him."

"Good. Now you can let him go."

You go back to the kitchen.

Thomas is still there. He is asleep. His breathing is shallow.

You sit beside him. You take his hand.

The mark is gone.

It is not gone.

It was never there.

It was in your mind. It was the weight of the child. It was the guilt that burned you.

You realize it now.

The ink in your veins is not black. It is blood. It is life.

You are not a keeper. You are a mother.

And mothers do not keep. Mothers release.

You look at Thomas.

"I forgive you," you say.

He does not hear you.

"I forgive me."

The room changes. The stone softens. The cold fades.

You see the light.

It is not the sun. It is not the fire.

It is the door.

The door is open.

The village is gone. The cellar is gone.

There is only the threshold.

You stand at the edge.

The wind blows. It is warm.

You step forward.

You do not look back.

You do not need to.

The past is behind you. It is heavy. It is dead.

You are light.

You are free.

The cost is high.

The cost is everything.

You have lost him.

You have lost yourself.

You have lost the child.

But you have gained this.

The silence.

The space.

The air.

You breathe.

It is the first breath you have taken in years.

It tastes of salt.

It tastes of rain.

It tastes of life.

You walk.

You walk into the mist.

You walk into the unknown.

You do not know where you are going.

You do not care.

You are free.

The ink is dry.

The page is blank.

You are the story.

And the story ends.

Or does it?

You feel a hand on your shoulder.

You turn.

It is Thomas.

He is not old. He is not sick.

He is young. He is strong.

He smiles.

"Where are we going?" he asks.

You look at him.

You look at the road ahead.

It is long. It is winding.

You do not know.

"We are going home," you say.

He nods.

He takes your hand.

You walk together.

The mist parts.

The sun rises.

It is bright.

It is hot.

It is real.

You are alive.

You are free.

The price was paid.

The debt is clear.

You stand at the threshold.

You step over.

The door closes behind you.

The lock clicks.

The key is gone.

You have no way back.

You do not want to go back.

You walk.

The wind is in your hair.

The sun is on your face.

You are free.