The bus stops at the end of the gravel road. It does not honk. It simply stops. You step off. Your boots sink into the wet mud. The driver looks at you. He does not speak. He knows. You always know.

You are leaving. Not because you want to. Because they are coming. The town is small. The people are small. Their minds are small. They have decided what you are. They have decided what you do. They have decided why the crops fail and why the dogs bark at the moon. You are the cause. You are the curse.

You walk into the woods. The trees are tall. They are bare. The leaves have turned to dust. The air is cold. It bites your face. You do not shiver. You are used to the cold. The cold is honest. People are not.

You have been a healer. That is what they called you. A witch. A seer. A thief of time. You could see the rot inside the fruit before it showed. You could hear the heart of a man beat in his sleep. You could touch a fevered forehead and know if the soul would leave or stay. This is knowledge. It is heavy. It sits in your chest like a stone.

They do not like what they cannot fix. They do not like what they cannot control. You cannot be controlled. You cannot be fixed. So they build a wall around you. They speak in whispers. They cross the street when you pass. They throw stones at night. Not hard stones. Just enough to scare. Just enough to remind.

You know their names. You know their fears. You know that Margaret Holloway is afraid of the dark. You know that Edward Ashworth is afraid of his wife’s silence. You know that the church deacon is afraid of his own hands. You know these things. You cannot stop knowing. This is the curse. To know is to suffer. To know is to be alone.

You walk further. The path disappears. The undergrowth is thick. You push through. Thorns catch your coat. You do not care. You are going to the river. The river is far. It is wild. It does not have a name on the map. It is older than the town. It is older than the church. It is older than the fear.

You remember the last night in the house. The house is burning now. You did not light the fire. But you did not stop it. You stood on the porch. You watched the flames eat the beams. The wood cracked. The glass shattered. It was beautiful. It was terrible. You felt nothing. That is the worst part. You should have cried. You should have screamed. You felt only a dull ache. A sense of completion.

The community loved you. Or so they said. They loved what you gave them. They loved the cures. They loved the answers. They did not love you. They used you. When the answers stopped coming, when the cures failed, when the fear grew too big to hold, they turned. They turned their love into hate. It was easy. It was fast.

You reach the river. The water is black. It moves fast. It roars. The sound is loud. It fills your ears. It drowns out the whispers. You stand on the bank. The mud is soft. You take off your boots. You leave them there. You step into the water.

It is ice cold. It shocks your body. You gasp. You feel the current pull at your legs. You fight it. You are strong. You are tired. You are ready.

You see someone on the other bank. It is Thomas Bradshaw. He is standing there. He holds a lantern. He is not alone. There are others. They are watching. They are not trying to stop you. They are just watching. They are witnesses. They need to see. They need to confirm. They need to see you die so they can sleep.

You look at Thomas. You have known him for years. He was your friend. Once. He is old now. His face is lined. His eyes are wet. He does not call out. He does not reach for you. He just watches. He sees his own fear in your eyes. He sees his own complicity. He sees the shadow of what he is.

You do not yell at him. You do not curse him. You do not beg. You look at him. You let him see you. You let him see the truth. The truth is simple. You are not a monster. You are a person. You are afraid. You are in pain. You are leaving.

The water rises. It hits your waist. It hits your chest. You stop fighting. You let the current take you. You float. Your head is above the water. You look up at the sky. It is clear. The stars are out. They are bright. They are cold. They are indifferent.

This is the knowledge. The world does not care. The stars do not care. The river does not care. Only people care. And people are cruel. People are fragile. People need a scapegoat. You were the scapegoat. You are no longer the scapegoat. You are just water. You are just mud. You are just dust.

The cold enters your bones. It spreads. It numbs. It quiets the mind. The voices stop. The whispers stop. The fear stops. You feel light. You feel free. The stone in your chest is gone. The weight is gone. The knowing is gone.

You sink. The water closes over your head. The darkness is warm. The darkness is soft. It is like a blanket. It is like a mother’s hand. It is like the end of a long, hard day.

You do not struggle. You do not fight. You let go. You let go of the town. You let go of the people. You let go of the name. You let go of the curse. You let go of yourself.

The river takes you. It carries you downstream. The current is strong. The trees blur past. The stars blur past. The world spins. The world fades. You are no longer there. You are everywhere. You are nowhere. You are the water. You are the cold. You are the silence.

On the bank, Thomas Bradshaw lowers the lantern. The light dies. The others remain. They stand in the dark. They watch the empty water. They wait. They do not speak. They do not move. They are statues. They are ghosts. They are the town. They are the fear. They are the lie.

The lie is that you were bad. The lie is that you were dangerous. The lie is that you brought the sickness. The truth is that they were sick. They were sick with fear. They were sick with ignorance. They were sick with the need to blame. You were just a mirror. You showed them what they were. They could not stand the reflection. So they broke the mirror. They broke you.

But the water remains. The river remains. The trees remain. The stars remain. They do not change. They do not judge. They do not hate. They just are. This is the constancy. This is the truth. The natural world is eternal. Human life is brief. Human fear is foolish. Human love is destructive.

You are gone. The town will go on. They will find a new scapegoat. They will find a new reason for their pain. They will find a new name to hate. It will not matter. It will always be the same. The cycle will continue. The fear will grow. The hate will burn. The knowledge will curse.

But you are free. You are beyond the fear. You are beyond the hate. You are beyond the knowledge. You are beyond the self. You have let go. You have released. You have died. And in dying, you have lived. You have found the only peace. The peace of nothing. The peace of water. The peace of cold.

The river flows. It flows on. It carries no memory. It carries no guilt. It carries no name. It just flows. It is the threshold. It is the end. It is the beginning. It is the distant shore. You have crossed it. You will not return. You will not be found. You will not be remembered. You will be forgotten. And that is good. That is right. That is mercy.

The night is long. The night is cold. The night is empty. The town sleeps. The town dreams. The town fears. You are awake. You are still. You are water. You are ice. You are star. You are the end of the story. You are the silence after the noise. You are the peace after the pain. You are the threshold. You have passed through. You are gone.

The bus driver looks at the empty road. He starts the engine. The bus pulls away. The headlights cut through the dark. The mud is stained. The air is cold. The world turns. The world spins. The world forgets. You are part of it. You are part of the silence. You are part of the cold. You are part of the truth. The truth is that we are all alone. The truth is that we are all afraid. The truth is that we are all dying. The truth is that we all let go. In the end, we all let go.