The frost had taken the barn first.

Then the fields.

Now the house.

Thomas sat in the dark.

He did not light the lamp.

The cold was a living thing.

It pressed against the glass.

It seeped through the floorboards.

His hands shook.

He wrapped them in his coat.

The wool was thin.

Worn.

Gray.

Like his face.

Like the sky outside.

He was a doctor.

Or he had been.

Before the sickness.

Before the silence.

Before the end.

He looked at his hands.

The fingers were bent.

Knuckles swollen.

Like roots in the earth.

Like dead things.

He tried to move them.

They did not answer.

They were stone.

They were wood.

They were no longer his.

A knock came.

Soft.

Faint.

Like a bird tapping on a window.

Thomas did not move.

The knock came again.

He stood.

His legs screamed.

He walked to the door.

The wood was cold.

The iron handle was colder.

He opened it.

A woman stood there.

She was old.

Her hair was white.

Her coat was heavy.

She held a basket.

It was empty.

She looked at him.

Her eyes were dark.

Deep.

Full of rain.

Thomas saw her face.

He knew her.

He had seen her in the village.

He had seen her at the market.

He had seen her in his dreams.

He closed his eyes.

He opened them.

She was still there.

She stepped inside.

The cold followed her.

It filled the room.

It filled the space between them.

She did not speak.

She set the basket on the table.

She sat down.

Her movements were slow.

Careful.

Like a cat.

Like a ghost.

Thomas sat opposite her.

The distance between them was short.

But it was long.

It was an ocean.

It was a war.

She looked at his hands.

He looked at hers.

They were steady.

Strong.

They were alive.

He envied them.

He hated them.

He wanted to break them.

He wanted to burn them.

He wanted to be her.

He wanted to be the one who gave.

He wanted to be the one who took.

The fire in the hearth was low.

The embers glowed.

Red.

Orange.

Dead.

The woman reached into her pocket.

She pulled out a small bottle.

Glass.

Clear.

It contained a liquid.

It was pale.

It was thick.

She uncorked it.

The smell hit him.

Sweet.

Bitter.

Familiar.

It was the smell of her.

It was the smell of the village.

It was the smell of his childhood.

He remembered the garden.

The roses.

The bees.

The sun.

He remembered the pain.

The first pain.

The sharp pain.

The dull pain.

The endless pain.

He had tried to cure it.

He had tried to save himself.

He had failed.

The sickness had won.

It had eaten him.

It had hollowed him out.

He was a shell.

A husk.

A name.

The woman poured the liquid.

It went into the empty basket.

It soaked into the wood.

It darkened the grain.

She watched it.

Her face was blank.

Her eyes were wet.

She did not cry.

She did not smile.

She just watched.

Thomas watched her.

He felt a pull.

A tug.

A hook in his chest.

He wanted to stop her.

He wanted to take the bottle.

He wanted to drink it.

He wanted to die.

He wanted to be free.

He wanted to be gone.

But he could not move.

His body was stone.

His will was dust.

He was trapped.

He was bound.

He was silent.

The woman finished pouring.

She corked the bottle.

She put it back in her pocket.

She looked at him.

Her eyes were soft.

Kind.

Sad.

She saw him.

Really saw him.

She saw the man he had been.

The man he was.

The man he would be.

She saw the doctor.

She saw the victim.

She saw the monster.

She stood up.

She walked to the door.

She opened it.

The wind howled.

The snow fell.

She stepped out.

The door closed.

The latch clicked.

The sound was final.

The sound was a period.

The end of a sentence.

The end of a life.

Thomas sat in the dark.

The cold returned.

It pressed against the glass.

It seeped through the floorboards.

His hands shook.

He wrapped them in his coat.

The wool was thin.

Worn.

Gray.

Like his face.

Like the sky outside.

He looked at his hands.

The fingers were bent.

Knuckles swollen.

Like roots in the earth.

Like dead things.

He tried to move them.

They did not answer.

They were stone.

They were wood.

They were no longer his.

He had thought he was the victim.

He had thought the sickness was the enemy.

He had thought he was the hero.

He was wrong.

He was the sickness.

He was the enemy.

He was the hero.

He was all of them.

He was none of them.

He was the house.

He was the cold.

He was the silence.

He was the frost.

He was the pale tale.

He was the lie.

He was the truth.

He was the end.

The fire died.

The room went black.

The cold won.

The snow fell.

The world turned.

The doctor sat.

The doctor waited.

The doctor died.

The house stood.

The house waited.

The house died.

The frost remained.

The frost endured.

The frost was the only thing that was real.

The frost was the only thing that was kind.

The frost was the only thing that was fair.

The frost was the only thing that was true.

The frost was the only thing that was left.

The frost was the only thing that was whole.

The frost was the only thing that was free.

The frost was the only thing that was God.

The frost was the only thing that was Love.

The frost was the only thing that was Death.

The frost was the only thing that was Life.

The frost was the only thing that was Everything.

The frost was the only thing that was Nothing.

The frost was the only thing that was Him.

The frost was the only thing that was Her.

The frost was the only thing that was Us.

The frost was the only thing that was Them.

The frost was the only thing that was You.

The frost was the only thing that was Me.

The frost was the only thing that was We.

The frost was the only thing that was I.

The frost was the only thing that was Is.

The frost was the only thing that Was.

The frost was the only thing that Will Be.

The frost was the only thing that Has Been.

The frost was the only thing that Shall Be.

The frost was the only thing that Could Be.

The frost was the only thing that Would Be.

The frost was the only thing that Might Be.

The frost was the only thing that Must Be.

The frost was the only thing that Can Be.

The frost was the only thing that Cannot Be.

The frost was the only thing that Is Not.

The frost was the only thing that Is.

The frost was the only thing.

The frost was the story.

The frost was the end.

The frost was the beginning.

The frost was the middle.

The frost was the silence.

The frost was the scream.

The frost was the cry.

The frost was the laugh.

The frost was the tear.

The frost was the blood.

The frost was the bone.

The frost was the skin.

The frost was the hair.

The frost was the eye.

The frost was the ear.

The frost was the nose.

The frost was the mouth.

The frost was the tongue.

The frost was the tooth.

The frost was the gum.

The frost was the jaw.

The frost was the neck.

The frost was the shoulder.

The frost was the arm.

The frost was the elbow.

The frost was the wrist.

The frost was the hand.

The frost was the palm.

The frost was the finger.

The frost was the nail.

The frost was the thumb.

The frost was the chest.

The frost was the heart.

The frost was the lung.

The frost was the liver.

The frost was the stomach.

The frost was the gut.

The frost was the kidney.

The frost was the bladder.

The frost was the bone.

The frost was the muscle.

The frost was the nerve.

The frost was the vein.

The frost was the artery.

The frost was the blood.

The frost was the cell.

The frost was the atom.

The frost was the electron.

The frost was the proton.

The frost was the neutron.

The frost was the quark.

The frost was the field.

The frost was the void.

The frost was the all.

The frost was the nothing.

The frost was the end.