You walk.

The road is grey.

It is a long road.

You are seven.

You have a map.

It is old.

The paper is soft.

The ink is faded.

You hold it tight.

Your fingers are cold.

The wind is sharp.

It cuts your face.

You do not stop.

You must find the gate.

The gate is white.

It is high.

It stands alone.

No walls.

No guards.

Just the gate.

And the field behind it.

The field is empty.

The grass is dead.

Brown.

Dry.

It crunches underfoot.

You hear a sound.

A low hum.

It comes from the ground.

It comes from the sky.

It is everywhere.

You know this sound.

It is the sound of waiting.

It is the sound of judgment.

You stop.

You look at the map.

You are here.

You are close.

But you are lost.

The path has vanished.

The white line is gone.

The road ends in mud.

The mud is black.

It is wet.

It smells of rot.

You step in.

Your boot sinks.

You pull it out.

It leaves a mark.

A dark hole.

You look around.

There is a figure.

A boy.

He is sitting on a stone.

He is small.

He is dirty.

His hair is matted.

He is humming.

The same low hum.

You approach him.

He does not look up.

"Where is the gate?" you ask.

Your voice is thin.

He laughs.

It is a dry sound.

Like leaves breaking.

"There is no gate," he says.

"There is only the field."

"But the map says otherwise."

You hold out the paper.

He looks at it.

He smiles.

It is not a kind smile.

It is a cruel smile.

"The map is a lie."

"Who made the map?"

"Your father."

Your father.

The name feels heavy.

It sits in your chest.

"He said the gate leads to safety."

"Your father is a fool."

The boy stands up.

He is taller than you.

He is strong.

His eyes are dark.

They are like pits.

"You are not safe here," he says.

"Stay away."

You do not move.

You look at him.

You see the fear in his eyes.

It is the same fear you feel.

"Come with me," you say.

"No."

"Please."

He shakes his head.

He turns away.

He walks into the mud.

He does not look back.

You watch him go.

He disappears into the grey.

You are alone again.

The hum gets louder.

It vibrates in your teeth.

It vibrates in your bones.

You feel weak.

Your legs shake.

You fall to your knees.

The mud is cold.

It seeps into your clothes.

You look at the map again.

The lines are blurring.

The ink is running.

The white gate is melting.

It is becoming water.

It is becoming nothing.

You realize something.

The map is not for you.

The map is for them.

The ones who watch.

The ones who judge.

You are not the walker.

You are the prize.

You are the bait.

The gate is not an exit.

The gate is a trap.

You stand up.

Your knees pop.

You feel anger.

It is hot.

It is bright.

It burns in your stomach.

You are not a child.

You are a wolf.

You are a hunter.

You look at the empty field.

You look at the sky.

The sky is white.

It is blinding.

It is empty.

There is no sun.

There is no moon.

There is only the light.

The light is cold.

The light is absolute.

You understand now.

The justice here is not fair.

The justice here is a machine.

It grinds you down.

It eats you up.

It does not care if you are right.

It does not care if you are wrong.

It only cares if you are there.

You are there.

So you are guilty.

You look at your hands.

They are covered in mud.

They are stained.

You cannot wash them clean.

The stain is in the skin.

The stain is in the soul.

You think of your brother.

Thomas.

He is back home.

He is safe.

He is warm.

He does not know what is happening.

He does not know that you are here.

He does not know that you are lost.

You love him.

The love is a stone.

It is heavy.

It is solid.

It is the only thing you have.

You close your eyes.

You feel his face.

You feel his breath.

You feel his hand in yours.

You open your eyes.

The field is still empty.

The hum is still there.

But it is different now.

It is quieter.

It is further away.

You take a step.

You take another step.

You walk toward the white light.

You do not look at the map.

You throw it away.

The paper flies.

It lands in the mud.

It dissolves.

It becomes nothing.

You walk faster.

Your heart beats hard.

It is a drum.

It is a war drum.

You are running now.

You are running away.

You are running toward the light.

The light is brighter.

It is harder to see.

You stumble.

You fall.

You get up.

You keep moving.

You hear a voice.

It is your father.

It is distant.

It is clear.

"Come back."

You do not stop.

You do not turn.

"Come back."

You run harder.

The ground is shaking.

The mud is rising.

It is chasing you.

It is hungry.

It wants to eat your boots.

It wants to eat your legs.

You jump.

You land on a stone.

The stone is dry.

It is warm.

You keep running.

The light is ahead.

It is a wall.

It is a door.

It is a mouth.

You look at it.

You see your reflection.

You are old.

You are broken.

You are dead.

You are alive.

You are both.

You are neither.

You are the path.

You are the walker.

You are the gate.

You smile.

It is a small smile.

It is a true smile.

You step into the light.

The light takes you.

It is not painful.

It is cold.

It is clean.

It is empty.

You are gone.

The field is empty.

The mud is still.

The hum is gone.

The map is gone.

The boy is gone.

There is only the grey.

And the silence.

And the rain.

It begins to fall.

It is soft.

It is gentle.

It washes the mud away.

It washes the blood away.

It washes the memory away.

The field is new.

The grass is green.

It is soft.

It is alive.

A boy walks by.

He is seven.

He has a map.

He is lost.

He is afraid.

He is alone.

The world is big.

The world is small.

The world is kind.

The world is cruel.

The world is waiting.

The boy walks.

The road is long.

The wind is sharp.

He does not stop.

He must find the gate.

The gate is white.

It is high.

It stands alone.

No walls.

No guards.

Just the gate.

And the field behind it.

The field is empty.

The grass is dead.

Brown.

Dry.

It crunches underfoot.

He hears a sound.

A low hum.

It comes from the ground.

It comes from the sky.

It is everywhere.

He knows this sound.

It is the sound of waiting.

It is the sound of judgment.

He stops.

He looks at the map.

He is here.

He is close.

But he is lost.

The path has vanished.

The white line is gone.

The road ends in mud.

The mud is black.

It is wet.

It smells of rot.

He steps in.

His boot sinks.

He pulls it out.

It leaves a mark.

A dark hole.

He looks around.

There is a figure.

A boy.

He is sitting on a stone.

He is small.

He is dirty.

His hair is matted.

He is humming.

The same low hum.

He approaches him.

He does not look up.

"Where is the gate?" he asks.

His voice is thin.

He laughs.

It is a dry sound.

Like leaves breaking.

"There is no gate," he says.

"There is only the field."

"But the map says otherwise."

He holds out the paper.

He looks at it.

He smiles.

It is not a kind smile.

It is a cruel smile.

"The map is a lie."

"Who made the map?"

"Your father."

The name feels heavy.

It sits in his chest.

"He said the gate leads to safety."

"Your father is a fool."

The boy stands up.

He is taller than him.

He is strong.

His eyes are dark.

They are like pits.

"You are not safe here," he says.

"Stay away."

He does not move.

He looks at him.

He sees the fear in his eyes.

It is the same fear he feels.

"Come with me," he says.

"No."

"Please."

He shakes his head.

He turns away.

He walks into the mud.

He does not look back.

He watches him go.

He disappears into the grey.

He is alone again.

The hum gets louder.

It vibrates in his teeth.

It vibrates in his bones.

He feels weak.

His legs shake.

He falls to his knees.

The mud is cold.

It seeps into his clothes.

He looks at the map again.

The lines are blurring.

The ink is running.

The white gate is melting.

It is becoming water.

It is becoming nothing.

He realizes something.

The map is not for him.

The map is for them.

The ones who watch.

The ones who judge.

He is not the walker.

He is the prize.

He is the bait.

The gate is not an exit.

The gate is a trap.

He stands up.

His knees pop.

He feels anger.

It is hot.

It is bright.

It burns in his stomach.

He is not a child.

He is a wolf.

He is a hunter.

He looks at the empty field.

He looks at the sky.

The sky is white.

It is blinding.

It is empty.

There is no sun.

There is no moon.

There is only the light.

The light is cold.

The light is absolute.

He understands now.

The justice here is not fair.

The justice here is a machine.

It grinds him down.

It eats him up.

It does not care if he is right.

It does not care if he is wrong.

It only cares if he is there.

He is there.

So he is guilty.

He looks at his hands.

They are covered in mud.

They are stained.

He cannot wash them clean.

The stain is in the skin.

The stain is in the soul.

He thinks of his brother.

Thomas.

He is back home.

He is safe.

He is warm.

He does not know what is happening.

He does not know that he is here.

He does not know that he is lost.

He loves him.

The love is a stone.

It is heavy.

It is solid.

It is the only thing he has.

He closes his eyes.

He feels his face.

He feels his breath.

He feels his hand in his.

He opens his eyes.

The field is still empty.

The hum is still there.

But it is different now.

It is quieter.

It is further away.

He takes a step.

He takes another step.

He walks toward the white light.

He does not look at the map.

He throws it away.

The paper flies.

It lands in the mud.

It dissolves.

It becomes nothing.

He walks faster.

His heart beats hard.

It is a drum.

It is a war drum.

He is running now.

He is running away.

He is running toward the light.

The light is brighter.

It is harder to see.

He stumbles.

He falls.

He gets up.

He keeps moving.

He hears a voice.

It is his father.

It is distant.

It is clear.

"Come back."

He does not stop.

He does not turn.

"Come back."

He runs harder.

The ground is shaking.

The mud is rising.

It is chasing him.

It is hungry.

It wants to eat his boots.

It wants to eat his legs.

He jumps.

He lands on a stone.

The stone is dry.

It is warm.

He keeps running.

The light is ahead.

It is a wall.

It is a door.

It is a mouth.

He looks at it.

He sees his reflection.

He is old.

He is broken.

He is dead.

He is alive.

He is both.

He is neither.

He is the path.

He is the walker.

He is the gate.

He smiles.

It is a small smile.

It is a true smile.

He steps into the light.

The light takes him.

It is not painful.

It is cold.

It is clean.

It is empty.

He is gone.