You leave the orphanage on a Tuesday. It is raining. The sky is the color of wet ash. You are twelve. You have nothing but a coat that smells of mildew and a notebook. The notebook is thin. It is your only possession. You hold it tight against your chest. Your fingers are white.

The door is heavy. It groans as it swings open. Mrs. Gable stands in the hallway. She is tall. She wears a gray dress. Her face is a mask of stone. She does not look at you. She looks at the floor.

Go, she says. Do not come back.

You nod. You cannot speak. Your throat is closed. You step into the rain. The water is cold. It soaks through your coat. You shiver. You walk to the edge of the property. The fence is high. The wire is sharp. You climb over it. Your hands bleed. You do not feel it. You only feel the weight of the notebook.

The town is close. It is a place of gray stones and quiet streets. You walk fast. You do not look at the houses. You do not look at the cars. You only look at the ground. You count your steps. One. Two. Three. Four.

You stop at a shop. It is a bookshop. It is small. The window is dark. You see a man inside. He is old. He wears a red scarf. He is reading a paper. He does not see you. You press your face to the glass. You want to go in. You cannot. You have no money. You have no name. You are no one.

You turn away. You walk to the park. The park is empty. The trees are bare. The benches are wet. You sit on one. You open your notebook. The pages are blank. You look at them. They are white. They are clean. They are waiting.

You take out a pen. It is a cheap pen. It leaks. You draw a line. It is straight. You draw another. It is crooked. You cross it out. You start again. You draw a house. It has a door. It has a window. You draw a woman. She is tall. She has gray hair. She is standing in the rain. She is holding a key.

You do not know why you draw this. You do not know why you feel the need to record it. You draw until the ink runs out. The pen is dry. You crumple the page. You throw it in the mud. You look at the mud. The paper floats. It is black with rain. It is black with ink. It is black with your tears.

You stand up. You walk to the river. The river is brown. It flows fast. The water hits the rocks. It makes a noise. A low, continuous hum. You sit on the bank. You pull off your boots. Your feet are cold. They are blue. You put them in the water. It is freezing. It burns. You keep them in. You do not move.

A man walks by. He is young. He wears a blue jacket. He has a bag over his shoulder. He stops. He looks at you.

Are you cold? he asks.

You do not answer. You look at him. He looks at you. He sees your shoes. He sees your hands. He sees the notebook in your lap.

What is that? he asks.

It is nothing, you say.

He sits down next to you. He takes off his hat. He dries his hair. He is shivering. You are shivering. The rain stops. The sky breaks. A ray of sun hits the water. It glints. It is bright. It is too bright.

My name is Leo, he says.

You do not say your name. You do not have one. Not anymore.

Where are you going? he asks.

I do not know, you say.

That is a problem, he says.

He looks at you. His eyes are kind. They are tired. He is not a savior. He is a ghost. He is a shadow. He is a memory.

He stands up. He puts his hat on. He walks away. He does not look back. You watch him go. He disappears around the corner. The street is empty again. The sun fades. The clouds return. The rain starts again.

You pull your feet out of the water. They are raw. They are red. You put your boots back on. They are tight. They hurt. You stand up. Your legs are weak. You lean against a tree. You breathe. You breathe in. You breathe out.

You think of Mrs. Gable. You think of the key. You think of the house. You think of the door. The door was locked. It was always locked. You could hear the lock click. It was a small sound. It was a final sound.

You walk back to the town. You walk to the shop. The bookshop. The man with the red scarf is still inside. He is still reading. He does not look up. You walk past. You do not stop. You do not look. You know what you are. You know what you have. You have the notebook. You have the memory. You have the pain.

You walk to the edge of town. There is a field. It is dry. It is brown. The grass is dead. You lie down. The ground is hard. It is cold. You look at the sky. It is gray. It is endless. You close your eyes.

You dream of the house. The house is white. It is clean. The windows are open. The air is sweet. There is a table. There is a chair. There is a woman. She is young. She is beautiful. She is laughing. She is holding a child. The child is you. The child is small. The child is warm.

The woman looks at you. She smiles. She reaches out her hand. Her hand is soft. Her fingers are long. She touches your face. It is warm. It is real.

You wake up. The sun is setting. The sky is orange. The sky is red. The sky is fire. You are lying in the grass. Your notebook is beside you. It is dry. The ink is dry.

You open it. You look at the drawing. The drawing is smudged. The lines are blurred. The woman is gone. The house is gone. The child is gone. There is only a black smudge. A stain. A mark.

You look at your hands. They are dirty. They are stained with ink. The ink is black. It is under your nails. It is in your cuts. It is part of you. You cannot wash it off. You do not want to wash it off.

You stand up. You walk to the road. A bus comes. It is yellow. It is loud. It stops. The doors open. You step on. You do not have a ticket. The driver looks at you. He does not ask for money. He looks at your face. He sees the ink. He sees the eyes. He nods.

You sit in the back. The bus is full. The people are silent. They look out the windows. They do not look at each other. They do not look at you. You are invisible. You are a ghost. You are a memory.

The bus moves. The town disappears. The field disappears. The river disappears. The world blurs. You close your eyes. You hold the notebook. You feel the weight of it. It is heavy. It is light. It is everything.

You think of the sacrifice. You think of the giving. You gave your name. You gave your home. You gave your childhood. You gave your hope. You gave your life. You did it for the truth. You did it for the art. You did it for the pain.

The pain is the truth. The pain is the only thing that is real. The rest is a lie. The rest is a dream. The rest is a shadow.

The bus stops. It is a small station. It is at the edge of the city. You get off. The air is different. It is cold. It is clean. It smells of snow.

You walk into the city. The lights are on. The streets are wet. The people are fast. They are loud. They are alive. You are still. You are quiet. You are a stone in the stream.

You find a hotel. It is cheap. It is dirty. The room is small. The bed is hard. The sheets are thin. You sit on the bed. You take out your notebook. You take out your pen.

You write. You write one word.

Free.

You look at the word. It is small. It is weak. It is a lie. You cross it out. You write another word.

Lost.

You look at the word. It is true. It is heavy. It is real. You leave it. You close the notebook. You put it under your pillow.

You lie down. You pull the covers up. They are cold. You shiver. You do not sleep. You watch the ceiling. It is white. It is stained. It is old. It is like your life. It is like your soul.

You think of Leo. The man in the blue jacket. He was real. He was kind. He was a mistake. He was a moment. He was a drop of water in the ocean. He is gone. You are here.

You think of Mrs. Gable. The woman with the key. She is gone. The house is gone. The child is gone. The key is gone.

You are alone. You are free. You are lost.

You close your eyes. The dark comes. The dark is soft. The dark is warm. The dark is home.

You dream of the rain. The rain is heavy. The rain is fast. The rain washes the ink from your hands. The rain washes the stain from the page. The rain washes the pain from your heart.

The rain stops. The sun comes out. The sky is blue. The sky is clear. The sky is empty.

You wake up. The sun is in your eyes. It is bright. It is warm. It is real.

You sit up. You look at the notebook. It is closed. It is safe. You hold it. You feel the weight. It is light. It is heavy. It is yours.

You open the window. The air comes in. It is cold. It is fresh. It smells of life. You breathe it in. You breathe it out.

You stand up. You put on your coat. You pick up your bag. You leave the room. You walk to the door. You open it.

The hallway is quiet. The floor is cold. The light is gray.

You walk out. You walk into the world.

The world is vast. The world is loud. The world is cruel. The world is kind.

You walk. You do not stop. You do not look back. You do not look up. You look at the ground. You count your steps.

One. Two. Three. Four.

You are alive. You are here. You are you.

The ink is dry. The page is white. The path is pale.

You walk on.