The road was red.

Not like blood. Like rust.

Like old iron.

I walked.

My boots crunched.

The dust rose.

It hung in the air.

It tasted of ash.

And salt.

My name is Thomas.

I carry a satchel.

It is heavy.

It is empty.

I am leaving.

I must leave.

The Gate is ahead.

It stands tall.

Stone.

Cold.

It does not breathe.

It does not blink.

It waits.

I stop.

I breathe.

My chest hurts.

I think of Sarah.

Her hair.

Dark.

Wet.

Her hands.

Small.

Warm.

She touched my face.

Last night.

She did not speak.

She only held me.

Her grip was tight.

Too tight.

It hurt.

I let her.

I will not speak of her.

Not here.

Not now.

I look at the Gate.

A figure stands before it.

He is tall.

He wears gray.

He holds a staff.

He turns.

He sees me.

He does not smile.

He does not frown.

He waits.

I step forward.

I clear my throat.

It is dry.

It cracks.

I speak.

"Pass."

The word is small.

It dies in the air.

The man says nothing.

He raises his staff.

It points at me.

It does not hit.

It only points.

I feel it.

A hum.

In my teeth.

In my bones.

I step closer.

I look at his eyes.

They are white.

No pupil.

No iris.

Just white.

Like milk.

Like fog.

I feel fear.

It is cold.

It sits in my stomach.

I pull out my satchel.

I open it.

I show him.

It is empty.

He looks down.

He looks up.

He says, "Why?"

I do not know.

I try to speak.

My tongue is thick.

It moves slowly.

I say, "I am free."

He tilts his head.

He listens.

He nods.

It is a small nod.

Barely there.

He turns back to the Gate.

He raises his staff.

He strikes the stone.

Once.

The stone cracks.

A hairline fracture.

It runs down.

It does not open.

It only cracks.

I wait.

I watch the crack.

It is thin.

It is dark.

It looks like a vein.

I look at the man.

He is still.

He is a statue.

I feel time stretch.

It pulls at me.

It hurts.

I think of Sarah.

She is at home.

She is alone.

The house is quiet.

The clock ticks.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

I hate the sound.

I hate the silence.

I look at the crack.

It widens.

Just a little.

A breath of air comes out.

It is cold.

It smells of earth.

And rot.

I shiver.

I wrap my coat tighter.

The man speaks.

His voice is low.

It is like gravel.

"Stay."

I do not move.

I stare at him.

I do not blink.

I say, "No."

The word is hard.

It hits the air.

The man’s head snaps back.

His white eyes widen.

His mouth opens.

No sound comes out.

He raises his staff.

He swings it.

The air moves.

It cuts me.

A line of pain.

Across my arm.

Blood wells up.

It is bright.

It is hot.

I do not cry out.

I do not fall.

I stand.

I look at my arm.

I look at him.

He is shaking.

His hands tremble.

He looks afraid.

I see it.

The fear.

It is there.

Under the gray.

Under the white eyes.

He is just a man.

He is just a gatekeeper.

He is trapped.

Like me.

He is bound.

To the stone.

To the rule.

He cannot leave.

He cannot break.

He can only watch.

I feel a surge.

It is not anger.

It is pity.

I look at him.

I say, "Come."

He blinks.

He looks at me.

He looks at the Gate.

He looks at his staff.

His hands drop.

The staff hits the ground.

It clatters.

It is loud.

It echoes.

He looks at me.

His face is soft.

The gray seems to fade.

He is young.

He is tired.

He is lonely.

He steps forward.

He takes my hand.

His hand is cold.

It is dry.

I hold it.

I pull him.

We walk.

Away from the Gate.

The crack remains.

It stands open.

It does not close.

It does not heal.

It is a wound.

In the stone.

We walk on.

The road is long.

The dust is thick.

We do not speak.

We do not need to.

We are together.

We are free.

Or so I think.

I look at him.

He looks at me.

His eyes are still white.

But they are kind.

We walk for hours.

The sun rises.

It is pale.

It does not warm.

We reach a town.

It is small.

It is quiet.

The people watch us.

They do not speak.

They cross the street.

They avoid us.

I feel the eyes.

On my back.

On his.

We enter a shop.

A bakery.

The smell is sweet.

Bread.

Butter.

Warmth.

We sit.

I order.

I pay.

The coins are heavy.

I count them.

I have enough.

For now.

We eat.

The bread is good.

It is soft.

It tastes like home.

I look at him.

He eats slowly.

He chews.

He swallows.

He looks at me.

He smiles.

It is small.

It is real.

I smile back.

I feel light.

I feel free.

I look at my arm.

The cut is closed.

It is a scar.

It is thin.

It is white.

I trace it.

I feel the pain.

It is gone.

But the memory remains.

I think of Sarah.

I know where she is.

She is at the Gate.

She is waiting.

She will not come.

She will not follow.

She is bound.

To the house.

To the clock.

To the silence.

I made a choice.

I chose the road.

I chose him.

I chose freedom.

She chose duty.

She chose safety.

We are different.

We were always different.

I look at the man.

His name is Edward.

He tells me.

His voice is soft.

He was a keeper.

For many years.

He watched.

He waited.

He struck.

He was afraid.

Now he is here.

With me.

We are together.

We are free.

I look out the window.

The town is gray.

The sky is gray.

The people are gray.

We are color.

We are life.

We are moving.

I feel a pull.

It is in my chest.

It is tight.

It is strong.

It is Sarah.

She is calling.

Not with words.

With silence.

With absence.

I close my eyes.

I see her.

She is standing.

In the kitchen.

She is holding a cup.

The steam rises.

She looks out the window.

She looks at the road.

She looks at the Gate.

She does not wave.

She does not cry.

She just looks.

I open my eyes.

Edward is watching me.

He sees it.

The pain.

The pull.

He does not ask.

He does not speak.

He just holds my hand.

His hand is warm now.

It is strong.

I squeeze it.

I let go.

I stand up.

I pay.

We leave.

We walk.

The town shrinks.

The road grows.

The dust rises.

It hangs in the air.

I breathe.

It is hard.

It is heavy.

I look at Edward.

He is walking.

He is steady.

He is free.

But I see it.

In his step.

In his eyes.

He is still at the Gate.

He is still the keeper.

He is still bound.

He is just walking.

He is not free.

I am not free.

We are just moving.

I look at my arm.

The scar is there.

It is white.

It is permanent.

I look at the sky.

It is vast.

It is empty.

It is cold.

I think of the Gate.

The crack.

It is open.

It is a wound.

It will not heal.

It will not close.

It is the price.

Of freedom.

It is the cost.

Of leaving.

I think of Sarah.

She is at the Gate.

She is closing the crack.

With her hands.

With her silence.

With her love.

She is sealing it.

She is saving the town.

She is saving us.

I feel a tear.

It falls.

It hits the dust.

It disappears.

I do not wipe it.

I let it fall.

I walk on.

I do not look back.

I cannot look back.

If I look back.

I will stop.

I will stay.

I will be the Gate.

I will be the keeper.

I will be bound.

I will be stone.

I will be cold.

I will be alone.

I am not alone.

I am with Edward.

But he is not with me.

He is with the Gate.

We are shadows.

On the road.

Walking away.

From the light.

From the warmth.

From the love.

We are free.

But we are empty.

The satchel is light.

It is still empty.

It will always be empty.

There is nothing to carry.

There is nothing to keep.

There is only the road.

And the dust.

And the silence.

And the crack.

In the stone.

In the sky.

In my heart.

It does not close.

It never closes.

I walk.

My boots crunch.

The dust rises.

It hangs in the air.

It tastes of ash.

And salt.

And loss.

I breathe.

I am here.

I am gone.

I am free.

I am paid.

The price is high.

The price is all.

I walk on.

The road is red.

It is long.

It is endless.

I walk.