You are in the box. It smells of rust and old wool. You count the bars. Twelve. No, thirteen. You always count them. The count is the only thing that is yours.

Thomas Bradshaw stands outside. He does not look at you. He looks at his watch. It is a gold watch. The chain glints in the dim light of the cell block. He is a man of few words. He is a man of many laws. He is the law.

You are a prisoner. You are a sinner. You are the thing that was taken away.

Your wife, Eleanor, is not here. She is in the gallery. She is above. She is always above. You cannot see her face. You can see the hem of her dress. It is blue. The blue is the only color in this gray world.

Thomas speaks. His voice is dry. Like sand on glass.

"Silence."

You do not speak. You never speak. Words are chains. Chains are for hands. Your hands are free. But your mouth is shut.

The judge is a stranger. He wears a black robe. The robe is heavy. It swallows him. He reads from a paper. The paper is white. The words are black.

You know the words. You have known them for weeks.

"Guilty."

The word falls. It does not bounce. It sinks. It sinks into the floor. It sinks into you.

Thomas nods. He is pleased. The gold watch catches the light again.

You look down. You look at your hands. They are bare. They are clean. But they are empty.

You reach into your shirt. Your fingers touch the fabric. It is soft. It is worn.

It is the handkerchief.

It is not white. It is gray. The corners are frayed. The threads are loose. It smells of lavender. It smells of her. It smells of a life that is dead.

You pull it out.

Thomas sees it. He frowns.

"Put it away."

You do not.

You hold it up. The cloth hangs limp. It is a mirror. It reflects your face. But the face is wrong. The face is old. The face is tired.

You look at the cloth. You look at the weave.

You remember the day you bought it.

It was a market day. The air was thick with smoke. The street was crowded. People shouted. Cars honked. The city was alive. The city was loud.

Eleanor walked beside you. She wore a green coat. She was smiling.

"Look," she said.

She pointed to a stall. A old man sat behind a table. He sold silk. He sold lace. He sold cloth.

The cloth was on the table. It was folded. It was neat.

You touched it. It was cool. It was smooth.

"Is it for you?" you asked.

"It is for us," she said.

She bought it. She paid with cash. The coins clinked.

You held it. You wrapped it around your hand.

It was the first day. It was the best day.

Now you are in the box. Now the cloth is gray.

Thomas steps closer. He steps into the light. The light is harsh. It is a spotlight.

"You have evidence," he says.

You hold the cloth tighter.

"I have a memory," you say.

Your voice is low. It is a whisper.

Thomas laughs. It is a short laugh. It is dry.

"Memory is not evidence," he says.

"It is the truth," you say.

"Truth is a luxury," he says. "We have law. We have order. We have facts."

He points to the cloth.

"What is that?"

"It is hers."

"Whose?"

"Mine."

"Yours is gone. You are alone."

"I am not alone."

You look up. You look at the gallery.

You see a shape. It is blue. It is small.

It is Eleanor.

She is watching. She is always watching.

Thomas sees you look up. He smiles. It is a cold smile.

"Look at you," he says. "You look at the air. You look at ghosts."

"They are not ghosts."

"They are shadows."

You close your eyes.

You feel the cloth in your hand. You feel the texture. It is rough now. It was smooth before. Time makes things rough. Time makes things weak.

You open your eyes.

You see Thomas. You see the judge. You see the gallery.

You see the truth.

The truth is simple.

The cloth is not evidence of love. The cloth is evidence of failure.

You failed.

You left.

You left the house. You left the town. You left the life.

You went to the city. You went to the noise. You went to the dark.

You took the cloth with you. You hid it in your pocket. You hid it in your heart.

But you did not go back.

You did not go back.

Eleanor waited. She waited for years. She waited by the window. She looked at the street. She looked for you.

She did not see you.

You did not come back.

You were afraid. You were a sinner. You thought you were too dirty to touch her. You thought you were too broken to be loved.

You chose the box. You chose the silence. You chose the gray.

You chose to be alone.

Thomas sees your face change. He sees the light die.

"Ah," he says.

He steps closer. He is very close now. He is almost touching you.

"You have chosen," he says.

"I have chosen nothing," you say.

"You have chosen this," he says. He taps the bars. "You have chosen me. You have chosen the law. You have chosen the end."

You look at the cloth.

You look at the frayed edge.

You look at the loose thread.

You pull the thread.

It comes loose.

It hangs.

It is a single strand. It is white. It is fragile.

You look at Thomas.

He is watching you. He is waiting.

He is not angry. He is not happy. He is indifferent. He is the machine. The machine does not care. The machine only moves.

You look at the cloth.

You have held it for years. You have washed it. You have dried it. You have folded it. You have unfolded it.

You have kept it.

But keeping it is not keeping her.

Keeping it is keeping the wound.

You look at the gallery.

The blue shape is still there.

You cannot see her face. You cannot hear her voice.

But you know she is there.

You know she is waiting.

You know she is loving you.

Obsessively. Desperately.

She is giving her life to your shadow.

And you are eating it.

You are eating her life. One day at a time. One hour at a time.

You are the monster. You are not the victim.

You are the thief.

You stole her time. You stole her hope. You stole her future.

You wrapped it in gray silk. You hid it in your pocket. You wore it like a badge.

But it was a shroud.

It was a shroud for your marriage. It was a shroud for your love.

You killed it.

You killed it slowly. You killed it with your silence. You killed it with your absence.

Now you are here.

In the box.

With the shroud.

Thomas waits.

The clock ticks.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

You look at the cloth.

You look at the thread.

You hold the thread.

It is taut.

You pull.

The thread snaps.

It flies into the air.

It is gone.

You hold the cloth. It is torn now. It is a piece of nothing. It is a rag.

You look at Thomas.

He blinks.

He does not understand.

He expects you to beg. He expects you to cry. He expects you to fight.

He expects you to be a sinner.

But you are not a sinner.

You are a choice.

You made a choice.

You chose the cloth. You chose the gray. You chose the past.

But the past is dead.

The past is dust.

The past is in the box.

You are not in the box.

You are in your mind.

And your mind is free.

You look at the cloth.

You look at the tear.

The tear is a line. The line is a boundary.

One side is her. One side is you.

The line is broken.

You are on your side.

She is on her side.

You are apart.

You are finally apart.

You look at Thomas.

You smile.

It is a small smile. It is a light smile.

It is the smile of a man who is free.

Thomas does not smile. He is confused. He is a man of order. Order does not smile. Order does not break.

"You are confused," you say.

"I am the law," he says.

"No," you say. "You are the cage."

He steps back.

He touches his watch.

The gold glints.

He looks at you.

He looks at the cloth in your hand.

He sees the tear.

He sees the emptiness.

He sees the truth.

He sees that you have chosen.

You have chosen to let go.

You have chosen to stop loving the shadow.

You have chosen to stop being the thief.

You have chosen to be the man.

The man who is alone.

The man who is free.

Thomas looks at the judge.

The judge looks at you.

The judge looks at Thomas.

The judge looks at the cloth.

The judge looks at the tear.

The judge nods.

It is a small nod.

It is a heavy nod.

The gavel falls.

Bang.

The sound is sharp.

The sound is clear.

The sound is final.

You are not guilty.

You are not innocent.

You are done.

They unlock the door.

The door opens.

The light comes in.

It is bright.

It is white.

It is blinding.

You step out.

You step into the light.

You step into the world.

The world is loud.

The world is gray.

The world is cold.

You look down.

You look at the cloth.

You hold it.

You hold it for one second.

Then you let go.

The cloth falls.

It falls to the floor.

It lands with a soft thud.

It is gray.

It is still.

It is dead.

You turn.

You walk away.

You do not look back.

You do not look at the gallery.

You do not look at the blue dress.

You do not look at Thomas.

You do not look at the clock.

You walk.

Your feet hit the ground.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Your heart beats.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

You are alive.

You are alone.

You are free.

The cloth is on the floor.

It is alone.

It is free.

The light fades.

The door closes.

The sound is soft.

The sound is gone.

You are in the street.

The street is wet.

The air is cold.

You breathe.

You breathe in.

You breathe out.

The air is clean.

The air is new.

You walk.

You walk into the distance.

You walk into the night.

You walk into the dark.

But the dark is not empty.

The dark is full.

The dark is yours.

You are the master of the dark.

You are the king of the night.

You are the man who chose.

You are the man who let go.

You are the man who is free.

The cloth is behind you.

It is fading.

It is disappearing.

It is becoming dust.

It is becoming memory.

It is becoming nothing.

You are something.

You are here.

You are now.

You are alive.

You are free.

The end.