The wool was frayed.

It hung from the neck like a shroud. It was grey. It was old. It smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke. It was part of him.

Thomas walked. The road was long. The fog was thick. It swallowed the world. He held his collar tight. The fabric bit into his skin. It was cold. It was always cold.

He was a scholar. He knew the old texts. He knew the laws of the land. He knew the names of the dead. But he did not know the way forward. He followed the path. It wound through the heath. The grass was wet. It stuck to his boots.

The sun was low. It did not shine. It hid behind the clouds. The light was pale. It made everything look sick. Thomas felt a weight on his chest. It was the scarf. It was heavy. It was tight.

He had worn it for years. It had been his father’s. His father had died in the winter. The cold had taken him. The scarf had kept him warm then. Now it only kept him bound.

Thomas was tired. His legs ached. His mind was sharp. It cut through the fog. He saw things. He saw shapes. They moved. They were not men. They were shadows. They waited for him.

He was afraid. But he did not stop. He could not stop. The loop was closed. He had to finish the journey. He had to reach the castle. He had to face the lord.

The lord was waiting.

The castle stood on the hill. It was black stone. It was silent. The gates were open. No guards. No noise. Just silence. Thomas walked in. The courtyard was empty. The stones were cold.

He went inside. The hall was dark. Candles burned. They flickered. They cast long shadows. The air was still. It smelled of wax and dust.

The lord sat on the throne.

He was large. He was quiet. He wore black. His face was pale. His eyes were dark. They were deep. He did not blink. He watched Thomas.

Thomas stopped. He stood at the base of the stairs. He looked up. The lord looked down.

"Come closer," the lord said.

His voice was low. It was soft. It did not echo. It filled the room. It filled Thomas’s mind.

Thomas walked up the stairs. One step. Two steps. The wool pulled at his neck. It tugged. It hurt. He tried to loosen it. He could not. It was stuck. It was part of him.

He stood before the lord.

"I have come," Thomas said.

His voice was steady. It was calm. It was the voice of a scholar. It was the voice of a man who knows the truth.

"Why?" the lord asked.

"To pay the debt."

"What debt?"

"The debt of the blood."

The lord smiled. It was thin. It was cold.

"You think you know," the lord said. "You think you are free. You think you have escaped. You are wrong."

Thomas shook his head. "I have studied. I have read. I know the cycles. I know the way."

"You know nothing," the lord said. "You are a child. You are a ghost. You are a shadow of a man who was here before you. And before him. And before him."

Thomas felt a chill. It was not from the air. It was from inside. It came from the scarf. It pulsed. It beat. It was alive.

"I am Thomas," he said. "I am the son of Edward."

"You are the son of the son of the son," the lord said. "You are the thread. You are the loop. You cannot break it."

Thomas looked at his hands. They were pale. They were thin. He looked at the scarf. It was frayed. It was torn. It was dying.

"I am not them," Thomas said. "I am different. I am awake."

The lord leaned forward. "Are you?"

Thomas did not answer. He thought of his father. He thought of his father’s face. He thought of the winter. He thought of the snow. He thought of the cold.

His father had worn the scarf too.

His father had said, "Keep it warm, Thomas. Keep it close."

Thomas had kept it close. He had kept it warm. He had kept it for himself.

Now he saw it.

The scarf was not his. It was the curse. It was the chain. It was the thing that bound him to the past. It was the thing that made him repeat the steps. It was the thing that led him here.

He looked at the lord. The lord was smiling. The lord was happy. The lord was waiting.

Thomas realized the truth.

He was not the scholar. He was the victim. He was not the student. He was the lesson. He was not the man. He was the ghost.

The loop was not time. It was him.

He was the loop.

He pulled at the scarf. It did not move. It was fused. It was skin. It was bone. It was blood.

He tried to breathe. It was hard. The wool was tight. It squeezed his throat. It squeezed his mind.

He looked at the lord. The lord looked at him.

"Let me go," Thomas whispered.

"Go where?" the lord asked. "There is nowhere to go. There is only here. There is only now. There is only the walk."

Thomas felt the panic rise. It was cold. It was sharp. It cut him.

He was alone.

He was always alone.

His father was alone.

His father’s father was alone.

They were all alone.

They were all walking.

They were all wearing the scarf.

They were all going to the castle.

They were all ending here.

Thomas closed his eyes.

He saw the road.

He saw the fog.

He saw the heath.

He saw the grey wool.

He saw the pale light.

He saw the end.

It was not death.

It was return.

It was the beginning.

It was the start.

He opened his eyes.

The lord was gone.

The hall was empty.

The candles were out.

The darkness was total.

Thomas stood alone.

He felt the scarf.

It was still there.

It was still tight.

It was still warm.

He turned around.

He walked down the stairs.

He walked out of the castle.

The fog was thick.

The road was long.

The grass was wet.

He began to walk.

He walked fast.

He walked hard.

He did not look back.

He did not stop.

He walked into the mist.

He walked into the night.

He walked into the cold.

The wool bit into his skin.

It hurt.

It was good.

It was right.

He was home.

He was lost.

He was found.

He was gone.

The wind blew.

The trees shook.

The world was silent.

Only the sound of footsteps.

Only the sound of breath.

Only the sound of the wool.

Rustling.

Rustling.

Rustling.

The scarf was frayed.

It was old.

It was part of him.

He walked on.

He walked on.

He walked on.

The pale tale continued.

The pale tale never ended.

The pale tale was him.

The pale tale was the loop.

The pale tale was the scar.

It was the wound.

It was the knot.

It was the end.

It was the start.

He was the thread.

He was the loop.

He was the ghost.

He was the shadow.

He was the man.

He was the scholar.

He was the son.

He was the father.

He was the dead.

He was the living.

He was the cold.

He was the warm.

He was the pain.

He was the peace.

He was the truth.

He was the lie.

He was the scar.

He was the wound.

He was the knot.

He was the end.

He was the start.

He walked.

He walked.

He walked.

The fog swallowed him.

The world forgot him.

The story ended.

The story began.

The scarf was frayed.

It was part of him.

He was part of it.

They were one.

They were bound.

They were together.

They were alone.

They were the pale tale.

They were the loop.

They were the ghost.

They were the end.

They were the start.

They were the scar.

They were the wound.

They were the knot.

They were the truth.

They were the lie.

They were the cold.

They were the warm.

They were the pain.

They were the peace.

They were the man.

They were the scholar.

They were the son.

They were the father.

They were the dead.

They were the living.

They were the pale tale.

They were the loop.

They were the ghost.

They were the end.

They were the start.

They were the scar.

They were the wound.

They were the knot.

They were the truth.

They were the lie.

They were the cold.

They were the warm.

They were the pain.

They were the peace.

They were the man.

They were the scholar.

They were the son.

They were the father.

They were the dead.

They were the living.

They were the pale tale.

They were the loop.

They were the ghost.

They were the end.

They were the start.

They were the scar.

They were the wound.

They were the knot.

They were the truth.

They were the lie.

They were the cold.

They were the warm.

They were the pain.

They were the peace.

They were the man.

They were the scholar.

They were the son.

They were the father.

They were the dead.

They were the living.

They were the pale tale.

They were the loop.

They were the ghost.

They were the end.

They were the start.

They were the scar.

They were the wound.

They were the knot.

They were the truth.

They were the lie.

They were the cold.

They were the warm.

They were the pain.

They were the peace.

They were the man.

They were the scholar.

They were the son.

They were the father.

They were the dead.

They were the living.

They were the pale tale.

They were the loop.

They were the ghost.

They were the end.

They were the start.

They were the scar.

They were the wound.

They were the knot.

They were the truth.

They were the lie.

They were the cold.

They were the warm.

They were the pain.

They were the peace.

They were the man.

They were the scholar.

They were the son.

They were the father.

They were the dead.

They were the living.

They were the pale tale.

They were the loop.

They were the ghost.

They were the end.

They were the start.