The ink is dry. Your hands are steady. They have always been steady, a trait you inherited from your father, the clockmaker, though he is long dead and his workshop is a ruin of rust and silence. You sit in the high tower, the wind whistling through the cracks in the stone. It is a sound like a bone breaking. Below, the feast continues. You can hear the crash of plates, the roar of laughter, the clink of silver on pewter. They are eating well. They are drinking deep. They do not know you are up here. They do not need to.

You are the Weaver. That is what they call you. It is a polite title. It is a lie. You are the thing that keeps the walls standing. You are the thing that keeps the frost from entering the hearth. You are the thing that pays for the bread and the wine and the meat. You are the currency. You are the debt.

The candle burns low. The wax pools on the saucer, a small white lake. You watch it. You do not look at the mirror. You never look at the mirror. If you look, you see the truth, and the truth is too heavy to hold. You look at the quill. It is a raven’s feather. Black. Sharp. You dip it. You write.

To the Lord of the House,

The harvest was good. The granaries are full. The cows are fat. The children are healthy. There is no sickness in the village. There is no hunger. This is by your grace. This is by my labor. I have paid the price. I have paid it all.

You stop. The pen hovers. The ink blots the paper. A black star. You do not wipe it. It is part of the record.

They think you are a ghost. A spirit of the house. They leave offerings on the sill. A piece of cheese. A cup of ale. A flower. You take the food. You take the flowers. You leave the ale. You do not drink. You do not need to drink. You only need to weave.

The loom is in the corner. It is old. The wood is dark with age. The threads are white. They are not cotton. They are not wool. You know what they are. You have known for ten years. You do not think about it. You pull the thread. It is warm. It pulses. It has a heartbeat.

*Thump. Thump.*

The sound is in your head. It is in the walls. It is in the air.

The feast below grows louder. A song starts. A shanty. A song of work. They sing of the river. They sing of the boat. They sing of the fish. They are happy. They are free. They do not know what freedom costs. They do not know that their freedom is woven from your pain.

You pull the thread. It resists. It burns your fingers. You do not flinch. You have stopped flinching. Pain is just a signal. A signal that you are still there. A signal that the debt is still being paid.

You write again.

The winter will be mild. The snow will come late. The crops will grow tall. The people will be safe. I have done my part. I have given my life. I have given my name. I have given my face. I am no one. I am the shadow. I am the silence between the beats of the heart.

You fold the letter. You seal it with wax. The wax is red. It is hot. It smells of pine. You place it in the tube. The tube is metal. It is cold. It is heavy. You carry it to the window. You open it. The wind rushes in. It bites your face. It blows your hair across your eyes. You do not brush it away. You drop the letter.

It falls.

It falls through the dark. It falls past the branches of the dead tree. It falls toward the firelight. It falls toward the feast. It falls toward the men who eat and drink and laugh. It falls toward the Lord.

You watch it go. You do not breathe. You hold your breath until your lungs burn. You hold it until your vision blurs. You hold it until the world disappears.

When you breathe, the air is sharp. It is clean. It is empty.

You turn back to the loom. The threads are waiting. They are taut. They are bright. They are alive.

You sit down. You pick up the shuttle. You begin to weave.

*Thump. Thump.*

The sound is louder now. It is in your chest. It is in your throat. It is in your teeth.

You remember when you were a girl. You remember your mother. She had kind eyes. She had soft hands. She used to sing to you. The song was about a bird. A bird that flew high. A bird that could not come down.

You did not understand then. You understand now.

You are the bird. You are the one who cannot come down.

The thread pulls tight. It snaps.

A sharp sound. A snap like a twig.

You look at the loom. The thread is broken. The pattern is ruined.

You do not pick it up. You do not fix it.

You stand up. Your legs are stiff. Your knees crack. You walk to the door. The door is heavy. It is iron. It is locked.

You do not have the key. You have never had the key.

You push the door. It does not move.

You push harder. Your arms shake. Your face turns red. You scream.

The scream is silent.

No sound comes out.

The door opens.

It opens inward.

The hallway is dark. The stones are wet. The air is cold.

You walk out.

Your feet do not touch the ground.

You float.

You rise.

You pass through the ceiling.

You are in the air.

You are above the house.

You see the village. You see the fields. You see the river. You see the people.

They are small. They are ants.

They are eating. They are drinking. They are laughing.

They are free.

You look at your hands.

They are transparent.

They are made of light.

They are made of thread.

You see the pattern.

It is complete.

It is perfect.

It is you.

You are the wall.

You are the roof.

You are the foundation.

You are the house.

You are the debt.

You are the price.

You are the freedom.

You let go.

The light spreads.

The light covers the village.

The light covers the fields.

The light covers the river.

The people stop laughing.

The people stop eating.

The people look up.

They see the light.

They see you.

They do not see a ghost.

They do not see a spirit.

They see a woman.

They see a girl.

They see you.

They scream.

The scream is loud.

The scream is real.

It shakes the ground.

It shakes the trees.

It shakes the stones.

The house crumbles.

The walls fall.

The roof collapses.

The fire dies.

The light fades.

The darkness returns.

You are gone.

You are everywhere.

You are nothing.

You are free.

The silence is total.

The silence is deep.

The silence is heavy.

The silence is light.

The silence is you.

The silence is the end.

The silence is the beginning.

The silence is the truth.

The silence is the price.

The silence is the freedom.

The silence is the cost.

The silence is the love.

The silence is the cause.

The silence is the ideal.

The silence is the obsession.

The silence is the devotion.

The silence is the self.

The silence is the other.

The silence is the world.

The silence is the void.

The silence is the all.

The silence is the nothing.

The silence is the everything.

The silence is the end.

The silence is the start.

The silence is the middle.

The silence is the now.

The silence is the then.

The silence is the always.

The silence is the never.

The silence is the yes.

The silence is the no.

The silence is the maybe.

The silence is the perhaps.

The silence is the doubt.

The silence is the faith.

The silence is the hope.

The silence is the fear.

The silence is the joy.

The silence is the sorrow.

The silence is the pain.

The silence is the pleasure.

The silence is the life.

The silence is the death.

The silence is the birth.

The silence is the end.

The silence is the start.

The silence is the now.

The silence is the always.

The silence is the never.

The silence is the yes.

The silence is the no.

The silence is the maybe.

The silence is the perhaps.

The silence is the doubt.

The silence is the faith.

The silence is the hope.

The silence is the fear.

The silence is the joy.

The silence is the sorrow.

The silence is the pain.

The silence is the pleasure.

The silence is the life.

The silence is the death.

The silence is the birth.

The silence is the end.

The silence is the start.

The silence is the now.

The silence is the always.

The silence is the never.

The silence is the yes.

The silence is the no.

The silence is the maybe.

The silence is the perhaps.

The silence is the doubt.

The silence is the faith.

The silence is the hope.

The silence is the fear.

The silence is the joy.

The silence is the sorrow.

The silence is the pain.

The silence is the pleasure.

The silence is the life.

The silence is the death.

The silence is the birth.

The silence is the end.

The silence is the start.

The silence is the now.

The silence is the always.

The silence is the never.

The silence is the yes.

The silence is the no.

The silence is the maybe.

The silence is the perhaps.

The silence is the doubt.

The silence is the faith.

The silence is the hope.

The silence is the fear.

The silence is the joy.

The silence is the sorrow.

The silence is the pain.

The silence is the pleasure.

The silence is the life.

The silence is the death.

The silence is the birth.

The silence is the end.