The hand trembles. It is a small, dry thing. The knuckles are swollen. You know the name of every bone in it. You have memorized them. You sit in the high tower. The wind howls outside. The glass is old. It is thin. It sings.

You are a scholar. You study the old texts. You live in a world that is not quite this one. It is a place of stone and shadow. It is a place of rules. The rules are old. The rules are cruel.

Your hand shakes. It is the worst part. It is the thing that betrays you. It is the mirror. You look at it. It looks back. It is not your hand. It is a thing that belongs to another. It is a thing that has failed.

You have a friend. His name is Elias. He is not a scholar. He is a guard. He is strong. He is quiet. He stands by the door. He does not speak much. He watches you. He watches the hand.

You are looking for a cure. You are looking for justice. You believe that justice will come. You believe that the truth will shine. You are wrong. You do not know you are wrong. Not yet.

The tower is cold. The fire is low. You hold a book. The book is heavy. The letters are black. They are like beetles. They crawl on the page. You read. You search.

Elias enters. He brings wine. The wine is red. It is dark. He pours it. He does not ask if you want it. He just pours it.

You drink. It burns. It warms you. The shaking stops. For a moment, it stops. You look at Elias. He is smiling. It is a small smile. It is not a kind smile. It is a sad smile.

"What do you see, friend?" you ask.

He looks at your hand. He looks at you.

"I see a man who cannot let go," he says.

You feel a chill. You look away. You look at the book. The letters are moving again. They are forming a word. The word is *End*.

You do not like that word. You do not like it. You turn the page. The next page is blank. It is white. It is empty. It is a void.

You have spent years here. You have spent years studying. You have read every text. You have searched every corner of this strange world. You are looking for a sign. You are looking for a proof. You are looking for a way to fix the hand. You are looking for a way to fix yourself.

You are a scholar. You think in circles. You think in lines. You think you are straight. You are not straight. You are bent. You are broken.

Elias sits down. He is not tall. He is not broad. He is just there. He is solid. He is real. You are not. You are a thought. You are a memory. You are a ghost in a machine.

"Why do you stay?" he asks.

"Because I must finish," you say.

"Finish what?"

"The work."

"Your work is done."

"No."

"Yes."

You look at him. You do not understand. You want to argue. You want to cite a text. You want to prove him wrong. But you cannot. You have no words. The words are gone. They are in the book. The book is closed.

You open the book. The pages are blank. All of them. They are white. They are empty.

You feel a panic. It is a cold thing. It is a hard thing. It sits in your chest. It is a stone. It is a weight.

Elias stands up. He walks to the door. He opens it. The wind comes in. It is cold. It is sharp. It cuts your face.

"You are cold," he says.

"I am fine."

"You are not."

You look at your hand. It is still. It is pale. It is dead. It is not shaking. It is not moving. It is just there. It is a statue. It is a relic.

You have lost. You do not know when you lost. You do not know how you lost. You only know that you are here. You are in the tower. You are alone.

Elias looks at you. He sees your fear. He sees your pride. He sees your lie.

"I will go," he says.

"Wait."

"I must go."

"Where?"

"Down."

"To the people?"

"To the earth."

You call out to him. Your voice is weak. It is a whisper. It is a thread. It breaks in the wind.

"Elias!"

He does not turn. He walks into the dark. The door closes. The wind stops. The silence is loud. It is heavy. It is thick.

You are alone.

You look at the book. You look at the blank pages. You look at your hand.

You understand now. The justice you sought was not outside. It was not in the texts. It was not in the world. It was in you. It was in the hand. It was in the shaking.

You tried to stop the shaking. You tried to be still. You tried to be perfect. You failed.

The shaking is the truth. The shaking is the life. You killed it. You killed the life. You killed the truth.

You are a scholar. You know things. You know facts. You know names. You do not know yourself. You do not know the man in the mirror.

You look at the mirror. It is on the wall. It is old. It is cracked. You see your face. It is pale. It is old. It is tired.

You see the hand. It is in the mirror. It is not shaking. It is still. It is dead.

You want to cry. You cannot. You want to scream. You cannot. You are empty. You are hollow.

You think of the world below. You think of the people. They are living. They are breathing. They are shaking. They are imperfect. They are alive.

You are not alive. You are a record. You are a file. You are a thing in a box.

You stand up. Your legs are weak. They are thin. They are like sticks.

You walk to the window. The window is high. The ground is far. You can see the stones. You can see the grass. You can see the sky.

The sky is grey. It is heavy. It is waiting.

You think of Elias. He is down there. He is with the people. He is shaking. He is alive.

You are up here. You are still. You are dead.

You do not jump. You do not run. You sit down. You sit on the floor. The stone is cold. It burns.

You hold the book. You hold the blank book.

You open it. You close it. You open it. You close it.

You are waiting. You are waiting for something. You are waiting for the end. You are waiting for the truth.

The truth is here. It is in your hand. It is in your chest. It is in your eyes.

The truth is that you are alone. The truth is that you are wrong. The truth is that justice is not a prize. Justice is a burden. Justice is a pain.

You have carried it. You have carried it for years. You have carried it until you broke.

You look at your hand. You close your fingers. You open them.

They do not move.

You are a statue. You are a ghost.

The wind returns. It is softer now. It is gentle. It is a whisper.

It says your name. It says your name.

You do not answer. You cannot.

You are still.

The hand is still.

The book is closed.

The light fades. The shadow grows. The shadow covers you. The shadow covers the room. The shadow covers the tower.

You are in the dark.

You are in the silence.

You are in the end.

The end is not a door. The end is a wall. The end is a stop.

You rest.

You rest.

You rest.

The hand is pale. The hand is still. The hand is free.

You are free.

You are empty.

You are gone.

The wind stops.

The silence stays.

The book lies open. The pages are white. The pages are clean.

Nothing is written.

Nothing is left.

Nothing is real.

Only the dust.

Only the stone.

Only the cold.

You are the cold.

You are the stone.

You are the dust.

You are the silence.

You are the end.

The end is here.

The end is now.

The end is you.

You are still.

You are still.

You are still.

The hand is still.

The hand is pale.

The hand is gone.

The book is closed.

The door is shut.

The light is out.

The wind is gone.

The silence is full.

The silence is all.

You are the silence.

You are the full.

You are the all.

You are the nothing.

You are the everything.

You are the end.

The end is quiet.

The end is kind.

The end is cold.

You are cold.

You are still.

You are dead.

The hand is dead.

The book is dead.

The tower is dead.

The world is dead.

Only the memory lives.

Only the shadow lives.

Only the dust lives.

You are the dust.

You are the shadow.

You are the memory.

You are the past.

You are the gone.

You are the never.

You are the nothing.

The nothing is here.

The nothing is now.

The nothing is all.

You are the all.

You are the all.

You are the all.

The all is quiet.

The all is still.

The all is cold.

You are cold.

You are still.

You are quiet.

You are gone.

The hand is gone.

The book is gone.

The tower is gone.

The world is gone.

Only the silence remains.

Only the silence.

Only the silence.

Only the silence.

Only the silence.

Only the silence.

Only the silence.