The ink is dry. It is always dry by the time you notice the stain. You hold the quill in your right hand. The paper is white. It is too white. It bleaches the color from the room. You are in the scriptorium. It is midnight. The candles are fat. They do not flicker. They burn with a steady, cold light. The air smells of oak gall and iron. It smells of blood.

You are the Archivist. You are the keeper of words. You are old. Your hands shake. Not from age. From fear. You look at the mirror. The glass is dark. It shows your face. The face is yours. The eyes are not. The eyes are hard. The eyes are empty.

You speak to the glass. Your voice is low. It is a whisper.

I am here. I am still here.

The glass does not answer. It does not need to. It knows. It has always known. You are a reflection. You are a copy. The original is gone. The original is dead. You are what remains.

You look at the book on the desk. It is thick. It is black. The cover is leather. It is cold to the touch. This is the Codex. It is the record of the Order. It is the record of you.

You open it. The pages are thin. They are brittle. They crack under your fingers. You do not care. You turn the page. You look for your name.

It is there.

Your name is written in red ink. It is crossed out. There is a line through it. It is a strike. It is an erasure.

You laugh. It is a dry sound. It is a crack in the stone.

They erased me. They erased me before I was gone.

You close the book. You open it again. You look for the other names. You see them. They are whole. They are intact. They are clean.

Thomas Bradshaw. Edward Ashworth. James Whitmore.

They are safe. They are kept. They are honored.

You are not.

You stand up. Your knees pop. Your back aches. You walk to the window. The window is small. It is narrow. It looks out into the night. The night is black. The night is full.

You see the moon. It is full. It is bright. It is cold.

You see the trees. They are black. They are still. They are waiting.

You see the gate. It is locked. It is barred. It is heavy.

You are trapped. You have always been trapped.

You turn back to the desk. You pick up the quill. You dip it in the ink. The ink is black. It is thick. It is wet.

You write.

You do not write your name. You do not write the truth. You write the lie.

You write: The Archivist died of a fever. He was kind. He was gentle. He was forgotten.

You write it slowly. You write it carefully. You make the letters perfect. You make them beautiful.

You stop. You look at the words. They are lies. They are smooth. They are safe.

You feel a pain in your chest. It is sharp. It is hot. It is real.

You look at the mirror again. The face in the glass is smiling. It is a small smile. It is a sad smile.

You are not smiling. You are crying.

The tears fall on the page. They soak the ink. The ink runs. The words blur. The lie becomes a smear. The smear becomes a stain.

You wipe your face. You take a deep breath. The air is cold. The air is thin.

You pick up the book. You carry it to the door. The door is heavy. It is oak. It is iron.

You knock.

There is no answer.

You knock again.

There is no answer.

You knock a third time.

The door opens.

A man stands in the hallway. He is tall. He is thin. He wears a black robe. His face is pale. His eyes are dark.

It is Thomas Bradshaw.

He looks at you. He looks at the book. He looks at your face.

His face changes. It hardens. It freezes.

He steps into the room. He closes the door. The lock clicks. It is a small sound. It is a final sound.

You hold the book in front of you. It is a shield. It is a weapon.

Thomas speaks. His voice is cold. It is clear. It is hard.

Give it to me.

You do not move. You do not speak. You look at him. You look at his eyes. You see the fear. You see the hate. You see the love.

It is all there. It is all mixed. It is all wrong.

I will not, you say. Your voice is steady. It is strong. It is true.

Why? Thomas asks. He steps closer. He is close now. He is close enough to touch.

Because it is mine, you say.

It is not yours, he says. It is ours. It is the Order. It is the history.

The history is a lie, you say.

He smiles. It is a thin smile. It is a cruel smile.

The history is what we say it is, he says.

You shake your head. You shake your body. You shake your soul.

No, you say. The history is what happened.

He reaches for the book. His hand is fast. It is strong. He grabs your wrist. His grip is iron. It burns. It hurts.

You do not pull away. You do not fight. You stand still. You let him hold you.

You look at his face. You see the pain in his eyes. You see the doubt. You see the shame.

He is afraid, you think. He is afraid of the truth. He is afraid of me.

You are afraid of me, you say.

He stops. He looks at you. His grip loosens. His eyes widen.

How do you know? he asks.

I am you, you say.

He laughs. It is a short laugh. It is a bitter laugh.

You are a ghost, he says. You are a memory. You are a mistake.

I am the truth, you say.

He pushes you. He pushes you hard. You fall back. You hit the desk. The book falls. It lands open. The pages flutter. The wind from the window blows them.

The pages turn. They turn fast. They turn like wings. They turn like leaves.

You see the words. You see the names. You see the lies.

Thomas stands over you. He is breathing hard. His chest heaves. His face is red. His eyes are wild.

He picks up the book. He holds it in both hands. He looks at you. He looks at the book. He looks at the mirror.

The mirror shows two men. One is standing. One is lying. One is alive. One is dead.

They look the same.

Thomas drops the book. It hits the floor. It makes a thud. It is a heavy sound. It is a final sound.

He walks to the window. He opens it. The cold air rushes in. The candles flicker. The flames dance. They dance like ghosts.

He looks out. He looks at the moon. He looks at the trees. He looks at the gate.

He turns to you. He is pale. He is shaking. He is broken.

I am sorry, he says.

You do not answer. You cannot answer. Your voice is gone. Your words are gone. Your self is gone.

He walks to the door. He opens it. He steps out. He closes the door. The lock clicks. It is a small sound. It is a final sound.

You are alone.

You are in the scriptorium. It is midnight. The candles are burning. The air smells of oak gall and iron. It smells of blood.

You look at the mirror. The glass is dark. It shows your face. The face is yours. The eyes are yours.

You are alone.

You are free.

You are nothing.

You look at the book on the floor. It is closed. It is dark. It is silent.

You look at the quill. It is on the desk. It is empty. It is dry.

You pick it up. You hold it in your hand. It is light. It is cold. It is real.

You write.

You do not write words. You write lines. You write shapes. You write circles. You write squares.

You write your own signature. You write it over and over. You write it until the paper tears. You write it until the ink runs out. You write it until your hand bleeds.

You stop.

You look at the page. It is white. It is clean. It is empty.

You are empty.

You are clean.

You are white.

You stand up. You walk to the window. You open it. You climb out.

The night is cold. The air is sharp. It cuts your face. It cuts your lungs.

You walk to the gate. The gate is locked. You pick the lock. Your hands are steady. Your hands are sure.

The gate opens. It creaks. It groans. It sighs.

You step out. You step into the dark. You step into the night.

You walk. You do not stop. You do not look back.

You walk into the trees. You walk into the fog. You walk into the silence.

You are gone.

You are forgotten.

You are free.

The scriptorium is empty. The book is on the floor. The quill is on the desk. The mirror is dark.

The candles burn. The air is still. The night is long.

No one comes. No one looks. No one knows.

The ink is dry. It is always dry by the time you notice the stain.