The road was mud. Thick, sucking clay. You pull the cart. The oxen do not pull. They stand. They breathe. Their flanks rise and fall like bellows in a forge that has long since gone cold. You are small. The sky is gray. It is a gray that has weight. It presses down on your shoulders. You are ten years old. You do not know why you are here. You know only that you must go.

Margaret stands by the cart. She is tall. Her dress is white. It is stained with earth. Her hands are rough. They are the hands of a woman who has worked the soil until her fingers have forgotten how to be soft. She looks at you. Her eyes are dark. They are deep wells. You cannot see the bottom.

"Get in," she says.

Her voice is low. It is the sound of dry leaves skittering over stone.

You climb into the cart. The wood is cold. It bites into your skin. You sit. You look at the road ahead. It stretches out. It goes nowhere. It goes everywhere. It is a line drawn in the dirt. A line that will be erased by rain.

The oxen move. Slowly. One step. Then another. The wheels creak. The sound is sharp. It cuts the air. It cuts your throat. You swallow. Your mouth is dry. There is no water. There is only the taste of dust.

"Where are we going?" you ask.

Margaret does not answer. She looks at the trees. They are bare. They stand like skeletons. Their branches reach up. They grasp at the gray sky. They want to hold it. They fail.

"We are going to the house," she says.

"Which house?"

"The one by the river."

You look at the river. It is far. It is hidden behind the hills. You cannot see it. You can only hear it. A low hum. A constant, dull roar. It is the sound of time moving. It is the sound of things ending.

Margaret reaches into the cart. She pulls out a basket. It is woven from willow. It is old. The strands are frayed. She opens it. Inside, there is bread. It is dark. It is dense. It is heavy. She breaks a piece. She holds it out to you.

"Eat," she says.

You take it. You bite. The bread is dry. It crumbles in your mouth. It tastes of ash. It tastes of sorrow. You chew. You swallow. It is hard to swallow. It sticks in your throat.

"Why is the bread so hard?" you ask.

"Because it was baked long ago," she says.

"Long ago?"

"Before you were born."

You look at the bread. It is dark. It is full of shadows. You eat the rest. You do not speak. You look at your hands. They are small. They are pale. They are clean. They do not look like the hands of someone who has worked the soil. They do not look like Margaret’s hands.

The oxen stop. Again. They stand. They do not move. Margaret looks at you. She waits. She does not shout. She does not curse. She waits.

You get out of the cart. You walk to the oxen. You touch their noses. They are warm. They are wet. You whisper to them. You do not know what you say. You say nothing. You just breathe. You breathe into their nostrils. You share your air with them.

They move.

The road turns. The trees close in. The light fades. It is becoming night. The gray sky turns black. The black is absolute. It swallows the world. It swallows you. You are small. You are alone. You are with Margaret. But she is far. She is in the cart. You are on the ground. The distance between you is vast. It is the distance between life and death. It is the distance between knowing and not knowing.

You climb back into the cart. You sit. You look at Margaret. She is watching you. Her face is calm. Her eyes are still. They are still as stones. They are still as water in a deep well.

"Are you afraid?" she asks.

You shake your head. No. You are not afraid. You are tired. You are hungry. You are cold. But you are not afraid.

"Good," she says.

The cart rolls. The wheels creak. The sound is constant. It is a rhythm. It is a heartbeat. It is the heartbeat of the earth. It is the heartbeat of the story.

They arrive at the house. It is small. It is made of stone. The stones are old. They are gray. They are like the sky. The roof is thatch. It is brown. It is dead. It is full of seeds. The seeds will grow. They will become weeds. They will choke the house. They will kill it.

The door is open. It stands in the darkness. It is a mouth. It is waiting to eat.

Margaret stops the oxen. She does not untie them. She leaves them tied. She walks to the cart. She looks at you.

"Stay here," she says.

"I want to come in," you say.

"No."

"Please."

"No."

Her voice is firm. It is the voice of a wall. It is the voice of a stone. It cannot be moved. It cannot be broken.

She gets out of the cart. She walks to the house. She enters the darkness. The door remains open. The mouth remains open. You wait.

The night falls. The cold comes. It is sharp. It cuts. It enters your bones. You shiver. You pull your coat tight. It does not help. The cold is inside you. It is in your blood. It is in your soul.

You look at the bread. There is none left. You are hungry. Your stomach hurts. It twists. It knots. It is a knot that will not untie.

You look at the house. The windows are dark. There is no light. There is no sound. There is only silence. The silence is loud. It roars. It screams. It howls. It is the sound of absence. It is the sound of loss.

You think of the bread. You think of the taste. It was not good. It was not bad. It was just. It was real. It was the truth. The truth is hard. The truth is dry. The truth crumbles in your mouth.

Margaret does not come out. You wait. You wait for an hour. You wait for two hours. You wait for three. The stars come out. They are bright. They are cold. They look down on you. They do not care. They are far away. They are distant. They are indifferent.

You get out of the cart. You walk to the house. You stand before the door. You knock. You knock once. You knock twice. You knock three times.

There is no answer.

You push the door. It is heavy. It opens. The air inside is stale. It is thick. It smells of dust. It smells of decay. It smells of time.

You step inside. The floor is wood. It is old. It creaks under your feet. You walk to the center of the room. You stand. You look around. The room is empty. There is no furniture. There are no pictures. There is no light. There is only darkness.

You call out. "Margaret?"

Your voice echoes. It bounces off the walls. It returns to you. It is strange. It is alien. It is not your voice. It is the voice of the house. It is the voice of the past.

You walk to the back of the room. There is a table. It is small. It is made of wood. It is like the floor. It is old. On the table, there is a plate. The plate is white. It is clean. On the plate, there is bread. It is dark. It is dense. It is heavy.

You pick it up. It is cold. It is hard. You break a piece. You eat it. It tastes of ash. It tastes of sorrow. You eat the rest. You swallow. It is hard. It sticks in your throat.

You stand. You look at the table. You look at the empty room. You understand. You do not know what you understand. But you know. You know that the bread was not for you. It was for the house. It was for the memory. It was for the past.

You turn. You walk to the door. You step outside. The night is still. The stars are still. The cold is still.

You walk back to the cart. You sit. You look at the house. The door is closed. It is shut. It is sealed. It is final.

Margaret is gone. She is not in the house. She is not in the cart. She is not in the oxen. She is not in the bread. She is not in the earth. She is not in the sky. She is not in you.

She is nowhere.

You are alone.

You are small.

You are ten years old.

You look at your hands. They are pale. They are clean. They are yours.

You pull the reins. The oxen do not move. They stand. They breathe. They are alive. You are alive.

You pull. You pull hard. Your arms ache. Your back hurts. Your heart beats. It beats fast. It beats strong. It beats for you.

The oxen move.

Slowly.

One step.

Then another.

The road is mud. The road is long. The road is gray.

You do not know where you are going. You do not know if you will arrive. You do not know if you will live.

You know only this.

The bread is gone.

The taste remains.

It is in your mouth.

It is in your throat.

It is in your blood.

It is in your bones.

It is the taste of the world.

It is the taste of truth.

It is hard.

It is dry.

It is yours.

You pull the cart. The oxen walk. The sky is gray. The stars are out. The night is deep. The road is long.

You do not look back.

You do not need to look back.

The past is behind you. It is in the mud. It is in the dust. It is in the memory. It is in the taste.

You look forward. The road stretches out. It is dark. It is empty. It is waiting.

You are small.

You are alone.

You are alive.

You pull.

The oxen walk.

The wheels creak.

The sound is constant.

The sound is real.

The sound is yours.

You do not speak.

You do not cry.

You do not hope.

You just pull.

The road goes on.

The night goes on.

The life goes on.

It is hard.

It is dry.

It is true.

You swallow.

You walk.

You live.

The taste remains.

It is the only thing that remains.

It is the only thing that is real.

It is the only thing that is yours.

You carry it.

You carry it with you.

Into the dark.

Into the night.

Into the future.

It is heavy.

It is hard.

It is yours.

You do not drop it.

You do not let it go.

You carry it.

You pull the cart.

The oxen walk.

The road is long.

The sky is gray.

You are small.

You are alone.

You are alive.

The taste remains.