The feast was loud. It was too loud.

The hall smelled of roasted goose and old wax. The candles burned low. The shadows stretched long. They touched the floor. They touched the walls. They touched the men.

Thomas sat at the table. He held a cup of wine. The wine was red. It was thick. It looked like blood. He did not drink. He watched.

The Lord sat at the head. Lord Ashworth. He was a large man. He ate with his hands. He laughed. His laugh was deep. It shook the plates. He looked at Thomas. He smiled. It was a bad smile. It had no warmth. It had teeth.

Thomas felt cold. The hall was hot. He was cold.

He looked at the walls. They were made of stone. Old stone. Grey stone. It looked dead. It looked hungry. The stone did not move. It waited.

This was not a house. It was a mouth.

Thomas knew this. He had always known. But he had not seen it clearly. Not until now. The feast was a trap. The food was bait. The laughter was a snare.

He thought of his father. His father was dead. He was buried in the yard. The grass grew over the grave. The wind blew. The grass bent. It did not break. It remembered.

Thomas looked at his hands. They were clean. They were small. They were weak.

He needed to be strong. He needed to be the stone.

He drank the wine. It burned. It tasted of iron. He felt a heat in his chest. It spread. It moved to his arms. It moved to his legs.

The hall changed.

The candles flickered. They turned blue. The fire in the hearth turned green. The green fire hissed. It spat. It did not warm. It cooled.

The men at the table froze. Their mouths opened. No sound came out. The Lord Ashworth froze. His hand was raised. A chunk of meat hung from his fingers. He did not blink.

Thomas stood up.

The chair scraped the floor. It was a sharp sound. It cut the silence.

He walked to the wall. The stone wall. The grey stone. It pulsed. It beat like a heart. Thump. Thump. Thump.

He put his hand on it. It was warm. It was soft. It was alive.

"Let me in," he whispered.

The stone did not answer. It waited.

He looked at the Lord. The Lord was a statue. A statue of greed. A statue of power.

Thomas closed his eyes. He remembered his father's voice. It was soft. It was kind. It said, "Be true."

It was not enough. Truth was a feather. Power was a stone.

Thomas needed to become the stone. He needed to conquer. He needed to take the power. He needed to crush the Lord.

He opened his eyes. He reached out. He touched the Lord's face. The Lord's skin was cold. It was hard. It was stone.

The Lord was already part of the wall.

Thomas pulled back. He shook his head. No. This was not it. This was not victory. This was death.

He looked at the wall again. The wall watched him. It offered him a choice.

Join it. Become part of it. Be strong. Be eternal. Be empty.

Or leave. Leave and be weak. Leave and be human. Leave and die.

Thomas looked at the door. The door was open. The night air rushed in. It smelled of rain. It smelled of earth. It smelled of life.

He looked at his hand. The wine stain was on his sleeve. It was red. It was bright.

He thought of his mother. She had cooked for him. She had loved him. She had died of a fever. She had been weak. She had been beautiful.

He did not want to be the stone. He did not want to be the wall.

He wanted to be the rain.

He turned away from the wall. He walked to the door.

The hall screamed.

The sound was terrible. It was the sound of the stone breaking. It was the sound of the feast ending. The tables shattered. The plates flew. The Lord Ashworth crumbled. He became dust. He became grey powder. He fell to the floor.

Thomas did not stop. He walked. His feet did not touch the ground. He floated. He rose. The blue candles followed him. The green fire followed him.

He stepped through the door.

The night was dark. The stars were out. They were bright. They were cold.

He stood in the yard. The grass was wet. The air was sharp.

He looked back at the house. The house was gone. There was only a hole in the earth. A deep, dark hole. The wind blew through it. It sounded like a sigh.

Thomas stood alone. He was tired. He was hungry. He was cold.

He was free.

He walked to the tree. The old oak. His father had planted it. He touched the bark. It was rough. It was hard. It was real.

He sat down. He leaned against the trunk. He closed his eyes.

He felt the pulse of the tree. It was slow. It was steady. It was life.

He did not dream. He did not see the hall. He did not see the stone.

He saw the rain. He felt the drop on his nose. It was cold. It was clean.

He opened his eyes. The hole in the earth was still there. It stared at him. It was patient. It would wait. It would always wait.

Thomas stood up. He walked away. He walked into the night. He walked toward the village. He walked toward home.

He did not look back.

The wind followed him. It whispered his name. Thomas. Thomas. Thomas.

He did not answer.

The night was long. The road was dark. His feet hurt. His heart hurt.

But he walked.

He was a man. He was small. He was weak.

He was enough.

The morning came. The sun rose. It was pale. It was weak. It did not burn. It just lit the world.

Thomas reached the edge of the village. The houses were small. The roofs were thatch. The chimneys were stone.

He saw a light in a window. He knew whose it was. It was the baker. The baker who owed him money. The baker who was a fool.

Thomas knocked on the door.

The door opened. The baker stood there. He was old. He was fat. He was kind.

"Thomas?" the baker asked.

"Yes," Thomas said.

His voice was rough. It was strange. It was new.

The baker looked at him. He saw the dirt on his face. He saw the red stain on his sleeve. He saw the emptiness in his eyes.

"Come in," the baker said. "You look cold."

Thomas stepped inside. The kitchen was warm. The fire crackled. The smell of bread filled the air. It was sweet. It was soft.

He sat at the table. He put his hands on the wood. The wood was warm.

The baker brought him a cup of tea. It was hot. It was bitter.

Thomas drank it. It tasted of earth. It tasted of time.

He looked at the wall. The wall was brick. It was red. It was solid.

It was just a wall.

It did not breathe. It did not wait. It did not hunger.

It was just brick.

Thomas smiled. It was a small smile. It was sad. It was real.

He thought of the hole in the earth. He thought of the Lord. He thought of the stone.

He let it go.

He did not fight it. He did not conquer it. He did not join it.

He let it be.

He drank his tea. He felt the heat in his belly. He felt the warmth in his hands.

He was alive.

The sun moved across the sky. It climbed. It shone.

Thomas stood up. He paid the baker. He walked out.

The village was waking up. The dogs barked. The birds sang. The children played.

Thomas walked down the street. He saw his neighbor. He saw the shopkeeper. He saw the priest.

They waved at him. He waved back.

He was one of them. He was part of the world.

He was not the stone. He was not the feast.

He was the man who walked.

He walked to the market. He bought some bread. He bought some fruit. He carried the bag. It was heavy.

He walked home.

His home was small. It was white. The door was blue.

He opened the door. He stepped inside.

The room was empty. The bed was made. The clothes were on the chair.

He put the bag on the table. He sat down.

He looked at the window. The glass was clear. The sky was blue.

He breathed in. He breathed out.

He was here.

He was now.

The nightmare was over. It was not gone. It was buried. It was deep.

But he was above it. He was above the stone. He was above the fear.

He was free.

He closed his eyes. He slept.

He did not dream.

He rested.

The sun set. The stars came out. The moon rose. It was full. It was bright.

The wind blew. The leaves rustled.

Thomas slept.

He was safe.

He was home.