The Wistful Cipher

Blogs Literature

Posted 2026-08-20 05:46:58

You are the inquisitor.

Not by title.

By hunger.

The hall is warm.

Too warm.

Scent of beeswax.

Old blood.

Incense.

You sit at the high table.

Your hands are steady.

They are always steady.

They hold the glass.

The glass holds the wine.

Dark.

Thick.

It tastes of iron.

You do not taste it.

You watch.

The room is small.

Stone walls.

High ceiling.

A single window.

Rain blurs the glass.

Outside, the world is gray.

Inside, the world is amber.

You are the light.

You are the shadow.

The men enter.

They bow.

They do not look up.

You know their faces.

You know their sins.

Or so you think.

The first man.

Thomas.

He is young.

His face is clean.

His eyes are wet.

He holds a book.

A ledger.

He places it on the table.

You do not touch it.

You look at him.

"Speak," you say.

Your voice is low.

It is the voice of the stone.

He speaks.

He confesses.

He stole.

From the poor.

From the church.

He weeps.

You feel nothing.

You are a mirror.

You reflect his guilt.

But you are not empty.

You are full.

Full of a secret.

The second man.

Edward.

He is old.

His face is hard.

He holds a knife.

A ceremonial blade.

He places it on the table.

Next to the ledger.

You look at him.

"Speak," you say.

He does not weep.

He smiles.

"I killed," he says.

"A rival.

A lie.

A mistake."

He does not say who.

You do not ask.

You know.

You have always known.

The third man.

Catherine.

She is not a man.

She is a priest.

Robed in white.

She holds a vial.

Glass.

Clear.

She places it on the table.

You look at her.

"Speak," you say.

She closes her eyes.

"I poisoned," she whispers.

"A queen.

A tyrant.

A mercy."

She opens her eyes.

They are black.

They are deep.

They are you.

You feel a tremor.

In your chest.

A small bird.

Flapping.

You crush it.

You are the inquisitor.

You do not feel.

You judge.

You decide.

Thomas will be hanged.

Edward will be exiled.

Catherine will be silenced.

It is the law.

It is the order.

You stand.

The room shifts.

The shadows lengthen.

You look at the objects.

The ledger.

The knife.

The vial.

They are not objects.

They are keys.

You have held them for years.

In your mind.

In your soul.

You are the cipher.

You are the code.

You are the key.

But who is the lock?

You look at the window.

The rain is heavier.

The glass is cracked.

A single line.

Down the center.

Like a scar.

You remember the first night.

The fire.

The smoke.

The scream.

You were young.

You were naive.

You believed in good.

You believed in evil.

Clear lines.

Sharp edges.

But the lines blurred.

The edges softened.

The good man stole.

The evil man killed.

The saint poisoned.

And you?

You watched.

You recorded.

You judged.

You did not act.

You hid.

In the role.

In the title.

You became the thing you feared.

The cold.

The distant.

The judge.

But why?

You do not know.

You have never known.

The men wait.

They do not breathe.

The air is thick.

You pick up the ledger.

Your fingers brush the paper.

It is cold.

You open it.

The first page.

Your name.

In your own handwriting.

You did not write this.

Or did you?

The ink is fresh.

The words are simple.

I am the thief.

I am the killer.

I am the poisoner.

You close the book.

Your heart is a stone.

You pick up the knife.

It is heavy.

It is cold.

You hold it.

You feel the weight.

You feel the edge.

You do not cut.

You do not throw.

You hold it.

You look at the vial.

You pick it up.

It is empty.

The glass is clean.

There is no poison.

There is no truth.

There is only you.

You look at the men.

They are gone.

The room is empty.

Only you.

And the objects.

And the rain.

And the silence.

You are the inquisitor.

But you are also the accused.

You are the judge.

But you are also the criminal.

You are the key.

But you are also the lock.

You are the cipher.

But you are also the code.

You are the one who holds.

You are the one who breaks.

You are the one who remains.

The rain stops.

The light returns.

It is pale.

It is gray.

It is real.

You stand up.

Your legs are weak.

You lean on the table.

You look at the objects.

They are still there.

The ledger.

The knife.

The vial.

They are waiting.

They are patient.

They are eternal.

You do not take them.

You do not destroy them.

You leave them.

You walk to the door.

It is heavy.

It is old.

It is wood.

You open it.

The hallway is dark.

The stairs are stone.

You walk down.

One step.

Two steps.

Three steps.

You do not look back.

You do not think.

You do not feel.

You are the inquisitor.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

You are the middle.

You are the nothing.

You are the all.

You reach the bottom.

The door is open.

The night is cold.

The air is sharp.

It bites your face.

It bites your lungs.

You breathe.

You live.

You are alone.

You are free.

You are trapped.

You are the cipher.

You are the wistful one.

You are the one who knows.

You are the one who cannot speak.

You walk into the dark.

The dark walks with you.

The dark is you.

The dark is the end.

The dark is the truth.

The dark is the light.

You do not stop.

You do not turn.

You do not cry.

You walk.

Until the city swallows you.

Until the night swallows you.

Until you swallow the night.

You are the inquisitor.

You are the key.

You are the lock.

You are the cipher.

You are the wistful one.

You are the one who holds.

You are the one who remains.

You are the one who is gone.

You are the one who is here.

You are the one who is never.

You are the one who is always.

You are the one who is me.

You are the one who is you.

You are the one who is us.

You are the one who is no one.

You are the one who is everything.

You are the one who is nothing.

You are the one who is here.

You are the one who is gone.

You are the one who is waiting.

You are the one who is coming.