The ink is wet. It dries like a bruise.

You are seven. The cellar is cold. The air tastes of iron and old wool.

"Read it again," says the Voice. It comes from the shadows. It does not have a face. It is the house speaking. The house is made of brick and bone.

You read the letter. You have read it a thousand times. The words are not words. They are shapes. They are cuts.

"For the record," you whisper. "It was an accident."

The Voice is quiet. Then it is loud.

"Lies," it says. "Lies are the mortar. We build with them."

You look at your hands. They are stained. The ink is in the skin. You try to wash it off. The water runs black. The water runs black.

"Margaret is dead," you say. "I loved her."

The Voice laughs. It sounds like a door slamming.

"Love is a lock. Justice is the key. You have lost the key."

You are in the kitchen. The clock on the wall has no hands. It only ticks. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Your father is at the table. He is not there. He is a stain on the wood.

"Dad," you say.

The stain moves.

"Sit," it says.

You sit. Your knees knock.

"Did you do it?" the stain asks.

"I don't remember," you say. "I was sick. I was in the cellar."

"You were in the cellar," the stain agrees. "That is where we keep the secrets. That is where we keep the gold."

Gold. The word is heavy. It sits in your mouth like a stone.

"Margaret had gold," you say. "She had a ring. It was yellow. It was warm."

The stain does not move.

"She gave it to you," the stain says.

"No," you say. "I took it. I took it from her body. She was cold. She was so cold."

The clock ticks.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

"Did you love her?" the stain asks.

"Yes," you say. "I loved her with my teeth. I bit her. I bit her until I bled."

The stain smiles. It is a bad smile.

"Then you are guilty. Love is not a defense. It is the crime."

You stand up. Your legs shake.

"I want to go home," you say.

"You are home," the stain says. "This is home. We are all in the cellar. We are all in the ink."

You run to the window. The glass is black. You see your face. It is not your face. It is a mask. It is a seal.

"Let me out," you cry.

The window does not open. The latch is rusted. The rust is red. The red is blood.

"Justice is coming," the Voice says. It is in your ear now. It is inside your skull. "It is coming for you. It is coming for the gold."

You look at the ring. It is on the table. It glows. It is the only bright thing in the room.

"I want it back," you say. "I want to give it back."

"You cannot give back what you have eaten," the Voice says. "You have swallowed the gold. You are the gold now."

You touch your throat. It is tight. It is burning.

I remember the garden. The roses were red. Margaret was laughing. She had the ring on her finger.

"Look," she said. "Look at the light."

The light was yellow. It was golden. It fell on the grass. It fell on her face.

I loved her. I loved her so much it hurt. I wanted to keep her. I wanted to keep the light.

So I closed the door. I closed the door on the light. I closed the door on her.

The ink is spreading. It is on the floor. It is on the walls. It is on my skin.

"Who are you?" I ask the Voice.

"I am the judge," it says. "I am the jury. I am the executioner."

"Where is the evidence?" I ask.

"The evidence is here," it says. It points to my chest. "It is in the heart. The heart is a liar. The heart is a vault."

I try to speak. My mouth is full of ink. I cannot form the words. The words are stones. They are weights.

"Say her name," the Voice commands.

"Margaret," I whisper.

"Say it again."

"Margaret."

"Say it with hate."

I try. I push the word out. It tastes of ash.

"Margaret."

"Say it with love."

I push it out again. It tastes of blood.

"Margaret."

"Say it with truth."

I stop. I cannot say it with truth. The truth is a blade. I do not have the hand for it.

The room is dark. The ink is rising. It is at my ankles. It is cold.

"Is it over?" I ask.

"No," the Voice says. "It is beginning. The trial is long. The sentence is life."

I sit on the floor. The floor is wet. I wait.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

I remember the cellar. The smell of the earth. The sound of the shovel.

I did not dig a hole. I dug a grave. I buried the ring. I buried the light. I buried the love.

But the gold does not rot. The gold does not die. It waits. It waits in the dark. It waits for you.

You are the vessel. You are the pot. The gold is inside you. It is melting. It is burning your insides.

"Help me," I say.

"Who will help you?" the Voice asks. "Your father is a stain. Your mother is a shadow. Your sister is a memory. You are alone."

"I am not alone," I say. "She is with me."

"Who?"

"Margaret."

"She is dead," the Voice says. "The dead do not help. The dead do not forgive. The dead only watch."

I look at my hands. The ink is drying. It is hardening. It is becoming part of me.

I am the letter. I am the seal. I am the signature.

"Justice," I say. "I want justice."

"Justice is coming," the Voice says. "It is already here. It is the silence. It is the waiting. It is the pain."

The pain is sharp. It is in my ribs. It is in my brain.

I close my eyes. I see the yellow light. I see the ring. I see her face.

She is not laughing. She is not crying. She is looking at me. Her eyes are empty. Her eyes are full.

"I love you," I say.

"I know," the Voice says. "That is why you are guilty."

The ink rises to my waist. It is heavy. It is thick.

I am sinking. I am going under.

The house is breathing. The walls are expanding. The ceiling is lowering.

I am in the dark. I am in the cold. I am in the ink.

But I have the gold. I have the light. I have the love.

It burns.

It burns.

It burns.

The Voice is gone. The clock is gone. The stain is gone.

There is only me. And the gold.

I am the master. I am the golden master. I am the one who kept the light. I am the one who kept the secret.

I am the one who loved her enough to kill the world.

The ink is dry. It is black. It is hard.

I stand up. I am tall. I am strong.

I walk to the door. The door is open. The air is fresh. The air is cold.

I step outside.

The sun is out. It is yellow. It is gold.

It shines on my face. It shines on my hands.

I am not stained. I am clean.

I am free.

I am guilty.

I walk into the light. I walk into the fire.

I do not look back.

There is nothing to look back at.

There is only the gold.

There is only the truth.

There is only me.