The moth is dead.

You hold it in your palm. Its wings are tattered. They are grey. They are thin as old paper. You do not feel guilt. You feel light.

You are in the Hall.

The Hall is not a building. It is a space. The air is cold. The light is white. It has no source. It comes from nowhere. It is everywhere.

You look down. Your hands are clean. You scrubbed them. You scrubbed them for hours. The water ran red. Then it ran clear. Now your skin is raw. It peels.

You are an exile.

You left the city. You left the law. You left the judges. They said you were wrong. They said you were evil. They put you in the box. Then they let you go. They said it was mercy. It was not mercy. It was exhaustion.

You came here.

The Hall exists for you. Or you exist for the Hall. You do not know.

There is a door. It is black. It stands alone in the white void. There is no handle. You push it. It opens.

Inside is a room.

The room is dark. It is small. There is a chair. You sit. You wait.

A figure appears.

It is you.

It is not you. It is your mirror. It wears your face. It has your eyes. But it is calm. It is still. It looks at you with pity.

You stare back.

You feel a surge of anger. You want to strike it. You want to break it. You are the conqueror. You are the judge. You decided the fate of the men in the city. You burned them. You broke them. You did it for justice. You did it because the system was broken. The law was a lie. The rich went free. The poor rot. You fixed it. You were the blade.

The mirror smiles.

It does not speak. It does not need to. Its silence is loud.

You stand up. You shake your fist. You are the hero. You are the necessary evil. You are the one who saw the truth. The others were blind. You were clear. You were sharp.

You look at the dead moth in your hand.

You think of the men you killed. You think of their faces. You thought they were monsters. You thought they were part of the machine. You crushed the machine.

The mirror tilts its head.

You feel a crack in your chest.

You walk to the mirror. You touch its face. It is warm. It is solid.

You realize it is not a reflection.

It is a prisoner.

You have been talking to a ghost. A ghost of your own making. A ghost of your own justification.

You step back.

The room changes.

The walls dissolve. The white light floods in. You are in the Hall again. The moth is still in your hand.

You look at the moth.

You look at your hands.

They are not clean. They are never clean. The blood is under the skin. The blood is in the bone.

You remember the trial. You remember the judge. He looked at you. He did not look at you with fear. He looked at you with boredom. He looked at you like you were a stain. He said, We will forget you. He said, You are nothing.

You were not nothing.

You were everything.

You were the answer.

But the answer was wrong.

The justice you sought was not justice. It was rage. It was hunger. It was a hole in the world that could not be filled.

You try to speak.

Your voice is gone.

You look at the moth.

The moth was alive once. It flew. It sought the light. It crashed into the fire. It died.

You are the fire.

You are the moth.

You are both.

You drop the moth.

It hits the white floor. It makes no sound.

You turn around.

The door is gone.

There is only the light.

You walk.

You walk into the white.

The light is heavy. It presses on your shoulders. It presses on your lungs. You breathe. You breathe in the white. You breathe out the dark.

You are alone.

You have always been alone.

The men you killed are gone. The city is gone. The law is gone. You are gone.

Only the feeling remains.

The feeling of being right.

The feeling of being wrong.

The two feelings are the same.

You stop walking.

You stand in the center of the void.

You raise your hand.

You look at your palm.

It is empty.

You are the exile.

You are the judge.

You are the accused.

You are the victim.

You are the executioner.

You are the mirror.

You are the moth.

You are the fire.

You are the ash.

The light begins to fade.

The white turns grey. The grey turns black. The black is soft. The black is warm.

You feel a pull.

It is not pain.

It is relief.

You let go.

You let go of the story. You let go of the name. You let go of the city. You let go of the men. You let go of the justice. You let go of the self.

You fall.

You fall into the dark.

The dark is not empty.

The dark is full.

It is full of the dead.

It is full of the living.

It is full of the truth.

The truth is simple.

The truth is cruel.

The truth is that you were never the hero.

You were the disease.

And the body had to cut you out.

You do not scream.

You do not cry.

You simply exist.

You exist in the space between the breaths.

You exist in the silence after the bell.

You exist in the moment before the drop.

You are still.

You are done.

The moth is gone.

The light is gone.

The mirror is gone.

You are here.

You are nothing.

You are everything.

You are free.

The freedom is cold.

The freedom is vast.

The freedom is absolute.

You accept it.

You accept the end.

You accept the cost.

The cost is you.

The payment is made.

The debt is cleared.

The ledger is balanced.

The scales are even.

The world turns.

The sun rises.

The city wakes.

The people go to work.

They do not know.

They do not care.

They drink their coffee.

They read their news.

They live their lives.

They are ignorant.

They are happy.

They are blind.

You are awake.

You are alone.

You are free.

The end is not a stop.

The end is a beginning.

The beginning of nothing.

The beginning of silence.

The beginning of peace.

You rest.

You sleep.

You dream.

You dream of the moth.

You dream of the fire.

You dream of the light.

You dream of the mirror.

You wake.

You are still there.

You are still you.

But you are different.

You are lighter.

You are thinner.

You are almost gone.

The void holds you.

The void keeps you.

The void loves you.

The love is indifferent.

The love is total.

You do not resist.

You do not fight.

You do not conquer.

You surrender.

The surrender is complete.

The surrender is final.

The surrender is true.

You are no longer the exile.

You are no longer the judge.

You are no longer the man.

You are the space.

You are the air.

You are the light.

You are the dark.

You are the moth.

You are the fire.

You are the ash.

You are the memory.

You are the forgetting.

You are the peace.

You are the end.

The end is quiet.

The end is soft.

The end is kind.

The end is just.

You are at rest.

You are at peace.

You are at home.

The home is nowhere.

The home is everywhere.

The home is you.

You are home.

You are whole.

You are complete.

You are done.

The story ends.

The silence begins.

The silence holds.

The silence keeps.

The silence loves.

You are in the silence.

You are in the light.

You are in the dark.

You are in the moth.

You are in the fire.

You are in the ash.

You are in the peace.

You are in the end.

You are in the beginning.

You are in the now.

You are here.

You are gone.

You are here.