"You are late."

The voice came from the edge of the tree line. It was dry. It was thin. It sounded like paper tearing in a silent room.

Elias turned.

He had been walking for hours. His boots were heavy. The mud clung to his soles. It was thick. It was black. It smelled of rot.

It was his wife’s voice.

Clara.

She stood by the old oak. The oak was dead. Its branches clawed at the grey sky. She was small. She was still.

"I am here," Elias said.

He did not run. He walked. His knees ached. The pain was a dull throb. It was constant. It lived in his bones.

Clara did not move.

"You are late," she said again.

The words hung in the air. They did not fade. They stayed. They were solid. They were cold.

Elias looked at her face. It was pale. It was smooth. There were no lines. There were no wrinkles. She looked exactly as she had on their wedding day. Twenty years ago.

He remembered the smell of her hair. It was lavender. It was sweet. It was gone.

"Clara," he said.

Her name felt heavy in his mouth. It tasted like ash.

She turned. She looked at him. Her eyes were dark. They were deep. They held no warmth. They held no light.

"You should not have come," she said.

Her voice was soft. It was gentle. It was cruel.

"I had to," Elias said.

He took a step forward. The ground was soft. It swallowed his foot.

"Look at you," she said.

She pointed at him. Her finger was long. It was white.

"You are old," she said.

Elias looked down. He saw his hands. They were spotted. They were thin. The skin was loose. It hung over the knuckles.

He looked at his face in a puddle. The water was black. It reflected his eyes. They were tired. They were red.

"I am old," he said.

"Yes," Clara said.

She turned away. She walked into the trees. The trees were dark. They were dense. The leaves were brown. They crunched under her feet.

Elias followed.

He did not think. He walked. His body moved. His mind was empty. He was a ghost. He was a shadow.

The path was narrow. It was muddy. The roots of the trees broke the surface. They were like bones. They were like fingers.

He tripped. He fell. The mud hit his face. It was cold. It was wet.

He did not get up. He lay there. The sky was above him. It was endless. It was grey.

"Get up," Clara said.

She was standing over him. She was tall. She was looming.

"I cannot," Elias said.

His legs would not move. The pain was sharp. It was bright. It was blinding.

"You must," she said.

She reached down. She grabbed his arm. Her grip was tight. It was firm. It was unyielding.

She pulled him up. He stood. He swayed. He was dizzy.

"Walk," she said.

They walked.

They walked in silence. The wind blew. It was cold. It cut through their coats. It whispered in the branches.

The trees were tall. They were dark. They were silent.

"Do you remember," Clara said.

She did not look at him. She looked forward.

"Remember what?" Elias asked.

"The house," she said.

The house.

Elias tried to remember. The walls were white. The floor was wood. The sun came in through the window. The light was gold.

"I remember," he said.

"No," she said.

"You do not."

He stopped. He looked at her.

"I remember the room," he said.

"The room," she said.

"Yes."

"The bed," she said.

"Yes."

"The sheets," she said.

"White," he said.

"No," she said.

They were not white. They were yellow. They were stained. They were old.

Elias felt a chill. It was deep. It was cold. It was inside.

"We left," Clara said.

"We left the house," she said.

"We left it behind," she said.

Elias nodded. He did not speak. He could not speak.

They walked on.

The path ended. The trees opened. There was a field. The field was flat. The grass was dead. It was brown. It was dry.

In the center of the field, there was a stone. The stone was large. It was grey. It was round.

Clara stopped.

"We are here," she said.

Elias looked at the stone. It was plain. It was empty.

"What is here?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said.

"Nothing?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said.

He looked at her. She was smiling. It was a small smile. It was sad.

"We have been here before," she said.

"Have we?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

"Many times," she said.

Elias felt a rush. It was fast. It was hot. It was fierce.

He remembered.

The house. The fire. The smoke. The scream.

He had left. He had run. He had left her.

He had saved himself.

He had abandoned her.

The memory hit him. It was hard. It was heavy. It was crushing.

"I am sorry," he said.

His voice was low. It was broken. It was raw.

"It is too late," Clara said.

She turned to him. Her eyes were wet. They were bright. They were clear.

"You left me," she said.

"I know," he said.

"I was alone," she said.

"I know," he said.

"I died," she said.

"I know," he said.

He looked at the stone. The stone was still. The wind blew. The grass moved.

"I came back," Elias said.

"Yes," Clara said.

"You always come back," she said.

"No," he said.

"Yes," she said.

"You are tired," she said.

"I am tired," he said.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

"Ready for what?" he asked.

"To leave," she said.

"To leave?" he asked.

"To go," she said.

He looked at her. She was beautiful. She was perfect. She was gone.

He looked at his hands. They were old. They were dead.

He looked at the stone. The stone was eternal. The stone was unchanged.

The stone waited.

The stone endured.

Elias stepped forward. He walked to the stone. He placed his hand on it. It was cold. It was smooth. It was hard.

He closed his eyes.

He felt the pain. It was sharp. It was bright. It was clear.

He opened his eyes.

Clara was gone.

The field was empty. The stone was there. The grass was dead. The sky was grey.

He was alone.

He stood there. He was still. He was quiet.

The wind blew. It was cold. It was harsh.

He did not move. He did not run. He did not cry.

He was tired. He was old. He was done.

He walked back to the trees. He walked into the dark. He walked into the mud.

He walked on.

He walked on.

The stone remained. The stone waited. The stone endured.

The story was over. The story was not over.

He was gone. He was here.

He was Elias. He was no one.

The wind stopped. The silence was loud. The silence was deep.

The stone sat in the field. It was grey. It was round. It was still.

It watched the sky. It watched the earth. It watched the time.

Time passed. Time moved. Time flowed.

The stone did not care. The stone did not feel. The stone was.

It was enough. It was all.

Elias walked in the dark. He walked in the mud. He walked in the rain.

He was cold. He was wet. He was alone.

He did not stop. He did not turn. He walked.

He walked to the edge. He walked to the end.

He walked into the void.

The void was black. The void was deep. The void was silent.

He was small. He was brief. He was dust.

The stone remained.

The stone waited.

The stone endured.

And the wheel turned.

And the wheel turned.

And the wheel turned.