The ink was still wet when the Bishop found me.

He stood in the doorway of the scriptorium. The candlelight caught the gold leaf on his mitre. It did not shine. It absorbed.

"Edward," he said. His voice was dry. Like dust settling on a tomb.

I looked up from the vellum. My fingers were stained. Black. The soot of the charcoal. The ash of the dead.

"You are trembling," he observed.

"I am cold," I lied.

He stepped inside. The door clicked shut. The sound was final. A period at the end of a sentence.

"Show me," he commanded.

I handed him the page. The parchment was thin. Translucent. Through it, I could see the grain of the oak table. I could see the shadow of his hand.

He took it. He did not read. He held it to the light.

"Again," he said.

I dipped the quill. I wrote the name. *Julian.*

My son.

He frowned. "The spelling is wrong."

I blinked. "It is not a spelling. It is a name."

"It is a sigil," he corrected. "A binding. You are trying to summon him."

"I am trying to remember him."

"Memory is a form of summoning," he said. "But you are doing it with the wrong tools. You are using the language of the court. Not the language of the grave."

I looked at my hands. They were shaking. The quill felt heavy. A lead weight.

"Who taught you this?" he asked.

"No one."

"Everyone teaches. Silence teaches. The void teaches." He turned the page over. On the back, the ink had bled. It had formed a shape. A spiral. A eye.

"You are a prisoner," he said softly. "You think you are the warden. You are not. You are the cell."

I wanted to speak. My throat was tight. A knot of grief.

"The ritual is not gold," he continued. "It is bone. You are eating your own skeleton."

I looked at him. He was young. He could not be older than thirty. His face was pale. His eyes were dark. Pits.

"Why do you care?" I asked.

"Because I was you," he said.

The air in the room changed. It grew thick. Viscous.

"Prove it," I said.

He reached into his robe. He pulled out a hand. It was not a hand. It was a mirror. A small, oval mirror. The glass was cracked.

"Look," he said.

I looked.

I saw myself. But I was older. My hair was white. My face was gaunt. My eyes were hollow. I was holding a quill. I was writing.

"Who is that?" I whispered.

"That is you," he said. "Ten years from now. You will die in this room. You will write until your blood runs out. You will bind your son to the page. He will not come back. He will become the ink. He will become the paper. He will become the silence."

I pulled away. My heart hammered. A bird in a cage.

"Lies," I said.

"Truths," he said. "The system does not forgive. It consumes. You are feeding it. You are feeding it your grief. And it is growing."

He pointed to the page. The spiral was larger now. It was pulsing. A heartbeat.

"Stop," he ordered.

"I cannot."

"You can. You must. The cycle breaks only when the prisoner accepts the bars. Not fights them. Accepts them."

I looked at the page. *Julian.* The name was alive. It was breathing.

"If I stop," I said, "he is gone."

"If you continue," he said, "he is trapped. Forever. In the loop. In the loop. In the loop."

I thought of Julian. His smile. The way he held his toys. The way he laughed. A bright, sharp sound. Like a bell.

I wanted him back.

I wanted him back so badly it hurt.

The pain was a physical thing. A stone in my chest.

"Help me," I said.

"I cannot," he said. "I am a tool. I am a key. But the lock is in your mind. You must turn the key yourself."

He moved toward the door.

"Wait," I said.

He stopped.

"What do I write?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. Erase it. Burn it. Let it go."

"But then I will forget him."

"No," he said. "You will remember him as he was. Not as a ghost. Not as a symbol. As a boy. He will rest."

I looked at the page. The ink was dry now. It was black. It was permanent.

I picked up the quill. I dipped it in the ink. I moved to cross out the name.

My hand hovered.

I could not do it.

The fear was cold. An ice water in my veins.

If I erased the name, he would cease.

If I kept the name, he would suffer.

The Bishop watched me. His face was stone.

"Choose," he said.

I thought of the court. The judges. The laws. The rules. They said the dead must be buried. They said the dead must be forgotten. They said the dead must be silent.

But the dead were not silent.

The dead were screaming.

I looked at the mirror. The old man was smiling. A sad smile. A tired smile.

"I cannot accept it," I said.

"Then you will be the prisoner," he said.

The door opened.

The Bishop stepped out.

I was alone.

The candle flickered.

The shadow of the page stretched across the floor.

It looked like a hand.

It reached for me.

I dropped the quill.

It shattered on the floor.

The ink spilled. It spread like a stain. Like a wound.

I looked at the page.

*Julian.*

The name was gone.

In its place, there was a hole. A hole in the parchment. A hole in the world.

I picked up the page. I held it to my face.

I could smell the ash. I could smell the dust. I could smell the blood.

I was the ink. I was the paper. I was the silence.

I did not write.

I did not erase.

I waited.

The dark came.

It was not black. It was gold.

A golden darkness.

It filled the room. It filled my lungs.

I felt a warmth. A strange, cold warmth.

I felt a hand on my shoulder.

A small hand.

"Father?"

I turned.

No one was there.

But the air was thick. The air was heavy.

The candle went out.

I sat in the dark.

I did not move.

I did not breathe.

I was the cell.

I was the bars.

I was the lock.

And I was the key.

The loop turned.

The loop turned.

The loop turned.

I opened my eyes.

The Bishop stood in the doorway.

"Edward," he said.

I looked at my hands. They were stained. Black.

"I am cold," I said.

He stepped inside. The door clicked shut.

"Show me," he commanded.

I handed him the page. The parchment was thin. Translucent.

He took it. He held it to the light.

"The spelling is wrong," he said.

My heart stopped.

The cycle had begun.

I was the prisoner.

I was the tool.

I was the key.

And I was the lock.

I looked at him. He was young. His face was pale.

"Who taught you this?" he asked.

"No one," I said.

"Everyone teaches," he said.

I looked at the page.

*Julian.*

The name was there.

The name was alive.

The name was me.

I smiled.

A sad smile.

A tired smile.

I understood now.

The ritual was not gold.

It was bone.

And I was eating my own skeleton.

I dipped the quill.

I wrote the name.

*Julian.*

The ink was wet.

The ink was black.

The ink was me.

The door closed.

The light went out.

The loop turned.