The ink was dry. That is what they said.

I stood before the magistrate. The room smelled of damp wool and old paper. My hands were shaking. Not from cold. From the weight of the thing I held. A small leather book. Bound in pale calfskin. The spine was cracked. The edges frayed. It looked like a thing that had been used. Much. Until it gave way.

"You know why you are here, Mr. Ashworth," the magistrate said. His voice was soft. Too soft. Like a whisper in a library.

I nodded. I did not speak. My throat was tight.

"Speak."

"I am here," I said. My voice was a rasp. "For the book."

He leaned forward. The candlelight caught the lines in his face. Deep. Trenches. He looked tired. He looked like a man who had seen too many men who thought they were special.

"It is not the book, Edward," he said. "It is what the book says."

"I did not write it."

"Did not write it. But you kept it. You protected it. You carried it across the border. You hid it in your boot. You looked it over when the customs men looked away. You are a keeper of secrets. Or so the town believes."

The town. Millhaven. A place of smoke and iron. The air was thick with soot. We all breathed it in. We all coughed the same cough. A wet, rattling sound. We were all the same. Except me. They said. I was different. I was quiet. I was strange. I walked with my head down. I read in the shadows.

I looked at my hands. They were red. Chapped. The ink stains were gone. But the feeling remained. Like a bruise under the skin.

"Who gave it to you?" the magistrate asked.

"No one."

"Lies."

"I do not lie."

"Everyone lies in this room. Especially you." He smiled. A thin, cruel smile. "You think you are a martyr. A saint. You think your suffering is holy. It is not. It is vanity."

I felt the words strike me. Like stones. I did not defend myself. I had nothing to defend. I only had the truth. And the truth was a heavy stone in my pocket.

"Let me explain," I said.

"No."

"Please."

"Time is short. The train leaves at noon. You will be on it. Or you will not leave this town at all. Choose."

I looked at the window. The sky was gray. A flat, white sheet. No clouds. No sun. Just the blankness. I thought of Clara.

Clara.

She lived in the mill. She worked the looms. Her fingers were quick. She did not look at me. Not really. She looked through me. I was a ghost to her. A shadow. But I saw her. I saw the way she held her breath when the machine jammed. I saw the way she wiped her forehead with a rag that was too small. I saw the loneliness in her eyes. It was a dark pool. I wanted to drink from it.

I wrote to her. In the book. I did not send it. I never sent it. The words were there. On the pages. Scratched in. Sharp. Urgent.

*You are the only light in this gray town. I am the shadow that loves you. I cannot touch you. I can only watch. And watch. And ache.*

It was not poetry. It was a wound. I wrote it because I had to. Because the feeling was too big for my body. It spilled out. Like blood.

The magistrate looked at me. His eyes were cold.

"Who is Clara?"

"Nobody."

"Lies."

"I do not lie."

"You are a liar, Edward. You are a thief. You stole a life. You stole her dignity. You wrote those words. You kept them. You carried them. You made yourself a hero. A tragic figure. You like that, don't you? You like the pain. It makes you feel real."

I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw the book at him. I wanted to tear the pages out and burn them. But I did not. I held the book tight. It was warm. It had my heat in it.

"Let me go," I said.

"No."

"Why?"

"Because you are dangerous. You think you can change the world with words. You think you can save people with your feelings. You cannot. The world is iron. And you are rust."

The door opened. A guard entered. He was young. His face was pale. He looked at me. I saw something in his eyes. Pity? Fear?

"Time to go," he said.

I stood up. My legs were weak. I clutched the book to my chest.

"Wait," I said.

"Go."

"I have to show you something."

"Go."

I walked to the door. The guard held it open. The hallway was long. Dark. The air was cold. I could hear the train in the distance. A low moan. Like a beast.

I stopped. I turned back. The magistrate was watching me. He did not move. He did not blink.

"The book," I said.

"Leave it."

"I will not leave it."

"Then you will lose it."

I opened the book. I held it up. The pages were thin. Transparent. I could see the ink through them.

"Look," I said.

The magistrate raised an eyebrow. He did not come closer.

"It is empty," I said.

He frowned. "What?"

"The pages are blank."

"That is impossible."

"Look."

I held the book out. I turned the pages. One by one. The ink was there. But it was fading. Like a photograph in the sun. The words were dissolving.

*You are the only light... I am the shadow... I cannot touch you...*

The letters were blurring. The lines were smudging. It was as if the ink was alive. And it was dying.

The magistrate stood up. He walked to the door. He took the book from my hand. His fingers were cold. He looked at the pages. His face changed. The cruelty left. Confusion entered.

"What is this?" he whispered.

"I don't know," I said.

"The words are gone."

"Yes."

"Where did they go?"

"I don't know."

He looked at me. His eyes were wide. "You wrote this. You know what it means."

"No."

"You are lying."

"I am not."

He looked at the book again. The last page. The one with my name. Edward Ashworth. The name was fading too. The letters were dissolving into the paper.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I am Edward Ashworth."

"No."

"Yes."

"You are not real."

I felt a shock. A cold jolt in my chest. "What?"

"You are a story. A tale. A ghost."

"I am real."

"Look at your hands."

I looked. They were transparent. I could see the table through them. I could see the floor. I could see the air.

I looked at the magistrate. He was solid. He was real. He had weight. He had presence. I was thin. I was light.

I was fading.

The book in his hand was still there. But it was lighter. It was almost nothing. A scrap of leather. A few sheets of paper.

"The town," I said. My voice was faint. "They said I was a prisoner. They said I was a sinner. They said I stole Clara."

"Yes."

"I did not steal her. I loved her."

"Love is not a crime. But obsession is. You consumed yourself. You wrote your life away. You turned yourself into a symbol. A cautionary tale. And now... you are gone."

I looked at my hands. They were gone. I could not feel them. I could not feel the book. I could not feel the air.

I looked at the magistrate. He was weeping. Silent tears. They ran down his cheeks.

"Forgive me," I said.

"I forgive you," he said. "But it is too late."

The room was dark. The walls were closing in. The floor was dropping away. I was falling. Into the blankness. Into the white.

I thought of Clara. I thought of her hands on the loom. I thought of her breath. I thought of the soot in the air.

I was not a ghost. I was a memory. A fading one.

The book fell. It hit the floor. A soft thud.

The magistrate picked it up. He opened it. The pages were blank. Truly blank.

He closed it. He put it in his pocket.

He looked at the empty space where I had stood.

"Goodbye, Edward," he said.

The door closed.

The sound of the train grew louder. Closer.

I was gone.

The ink was dry.

The story was over.

I am nothing.

I am a pale tale.

A whisper in the wind.

A shadow on the wall.

Gone.