The feast is a mistake.

You know it.

The air is thick.

Candlelight wavers.

Gold leaf flakes.

It falls on the floor.

You do not sweep it.

You are the guest.

Or the host.

It does not matter.

The room is small.

Stone walls.

No windows.

The door is barred.

From the outside.

You are inside.

This is ancient.

Or so it feels.

Time is a loop here.

The music stops.

Silence is loud.

You look at your hands.

They are clean.

You want them dirty.

There is a table.

Long.

Wood.

It holds the feast.

Meat.

Bread.

Wine.

The wine is red.

Like blood.

Like rust.

You pour a cup.

Your hand shakes.

The cup spills.

Red on the table.

You wipe it.

The stain remains.

This is the object.

It is not the cup.

It is the plate.

A single plate.

White.

Porcelain.

It sits empty.

In the center.

It stares at you.

You stare back.

It is a mirror.

Not of your face.

Of your hunger.

You are hungry.

Not for food.

For truth.

For end.

The others watch.

They do not speak.

They eat.

Chewing.

Swallowing.

The sound is wet.

You do not eat.

You wait.

For what?

For the trap.

For the fall.

For the turn.

There is a man.

He sits at the head.

Tall.

Thin.

His face is pale.

He is the guide.

Or the trap.

He smiles.

It is not kind.

It is technical.

He knows the rules.

You do not.

"Drink," he says.

His voice is dry.

Like dust.

You drink.

The wine burns.

It tastes of iron.

It tastes of old.

He watches you.

His eyes are flat.

Like stones.

He is the traitor.

You know this.

He led you here.

He promised peace.

He promised the end.

He lied.

This is the betrayal.

But you stay.

Why?

Because you are weak.

Because you are lost.

Because you are a stranger.

In this land.

In this time.

You are the exile.

The immigrant.

The one who does not fit.

The room closes in.

The walls breathe.

The air is cold.

You shiver.

The plate is still empty.

It waits.

It judges.

You look at the others.

They are masks.

Faces you know.

Faces you lost.

Friends.

Enemies.

Family.

They are gone.

Only the plate remains.

The guide stands.

He walks to you.

His steps are silent.

He stops.

He is close.

You can smell him.

He smells of earth.

Of rot.

Of rain.

"Give it to me," he says.

"Give what?" you ask.

Your voice is small.

A child’s voice.

"The plate," he says.

"I do not have it," you say.

"You do."

He is lying.

You know he is lying.

Or are you?

The confusion is a blade.

It cuts.

It opens.

You look at the table.

The plate is there.

Empty.

White.

Cold.

It is yours.

You have carried it.

In your mind.

In your heart.

In your blood.

It is the weight.

The burden.

The memory.

The guilt.

You reach for it.

Your hand hovers.

The air resists.

It is heavy.

It is light.

It is both.

You touch it.

It is warm.

It is alive.

You lift it.

It is heavier than stone.

Heavier than lead.

Heavier than life.

You hold it.

The guide nods.

He is satisfied.

He steps back.

The other guests rise.

They bow.

They leave.

One by one.

The door opens.

Cold air rushes in.

It smells of snow.

Of death.

Of winter.

You are alone.

With the plate.

The room is dark.

The candles are out.

Only the plate glows.

Faintly.

A soft light.

White.

Pure.

You look at it.

You see your face.

In the glaze.

It is old.

It is young.

It is dead.

It is alive.

It is you.

It is not you.

The truth is simple.

The truth is hard.

You are the trap.

You are the prey.

You are the hunter.

You are the hunted.

The lines are blurred.

The lines are gone.

There is no good.

There is no evil.

There is only the act.

The sacrifice.

The offering.

You must give it up.

You must let go.

The plate is a chain.

It binds you.

To the past.

To the pain.

To the mistake.

You must break it.

Not with force.

With will.

With love.

With hate.

With nothing.

You look at the plate.

You see the community.

The faces.

The hands.

The hearts.

They are in the glaze.

They are in the light.

They are in the silence.

You love them.

It is obsessive.

It is blind.

It is total.

You cannot let them go.

But you must.

The pain is yours.

The guilt is yours.

The memory is yours.

You carry it.

You carry it.

You carry it.

Until you cannot.

Until it breaks.

Until you break.

You close your eyes.

You breathe.

The air is still.

The light is soft.

You open your hands.

The plate is gone.

Your hands are empty.

Your hands are free.

The room is dark.

The door is open.

The snow is falling.

You step out.

The cold is sharp.

It cuts.

It cleans.

It heals.

You walk.

You do not look back.

You do not need to.

The plate is gone.

The guide is gone.

The feast is gone.

The past is gone.

You are here.

Now.

Alone.

Free.

The snow covers your tracks.

It covers the world.

It covers the pain.

It covers the truth.

It is white.

It is pure.

It is empty.

It is full.

You walk into the white.

The wind howls.

The wind sings.

The wind forgives.

You are the exile.

No more.

You are the man.

The woman.

The soul.

The light.

The dark.

The end.

The beginning.

The loop is broken.

The chain is cut.

The mirror is shattered.

The plate is dust.

The dust is wind.

The wind is sky.

The sky is void.

The void is home.

You stop.

You stand.

You breathe.

The snow falls on you.

It is cold.

It is warm.

It is life.

It is death.

It is love.

It is loss.

It is all.

You smile.

It is small.

It is sad.

It is true.

The story is done.

The truth is seen.

The pain is shared.

The pain is yours.

The pain is ours.

The pain is everyone’s.

We are all in the plate.

We are all in the glaze.

We are all in the light.

We are all in the dark.

We are all in the snow.

We are all in the void.

We are all free.

We are all bound.

We are all the same.

The distinction is gone.

The line is gone.

The border is gone.

The war is over.

The peace is here.

It is silent.

It is loud.

It is real.

It is false.

It is true.

You walk on.

The snow is deep.

The path is clear.

The end is near.

The end is here.

The end is now.

You are here.

I am here.

We are here.

The feast is over.

The guest is gone.

The host is gone.

The plate is gone.

The room is empty.

The door is closed.

The lock is turned.

The key is lost.

The past is locked.

The present is open.

The future is blank.

The page is white.

The ink is dry.

The story is done.

The reader is left.

The pain is shared.

The pain is real.

The pain is yours.

The pain is mine.

The pain is human.

The pain is eternal.

The pain is light.

The pain is dark.

The pain is life.

The pain is death.

The pain is love.

The pain is loss.

The pain is truth.

The pain is free.

The pain is gone.

The silence remains.

The silence is full.

The silence is empty.

The silence is everything.

The silence is nothing.

The silence is now.

The silence is forever.

The silence is home.