The fog came in thick. It smelled of wet stone and old iron. I walked. My boots were heavy. They were caked in mud. I did not look down. I looked at the trees. They stood still. They were dark. They were watching.

I was a thief. I had stolen bread. I had stolen wool. I had stolen the light from a window. I carried a sack. It was heavy. It was full of sin. I did not know what was inside. I only knew it weighed on me. It pulled at my shoulder. It burned against my skin.

I was not alone. I felt it. A presence. It walked beside me. It did not speak. It did not touch me. But I felt its breath on my neck. It was cold. It was old.

"Are you there?" I asked. My voice was small. It broke in the air.

There was no answer. Only the wind. The wind moved through the branches. It sounded like whispering. It sounded like names.

I kept walking. The path was narrow. It wound through the woods. The trees closed in. The sky was gone. We were in a belly of shadow.

I thought of my brother. He was dead. He had died for me. He had taken the blame. He had gone to the gallows. I had watched. I had not cried. I was too proud. I was too afraid. Now I paid. I walked this path. I walked until I died.

The sack grew heavier. It felt like it was filling. It felt like it was breathing.

I stopped. I turned. I looked into the dark. I saw a shape. It was tall. It was pale. It stood under a tree. It wore a long coat. It had no face. It was only a suggestion of a face. A hollow where eyes should be.

"Who are you?" I said.

"I am the witness," it said. Its voice was deep. It came from everywhere. It came from the ground. It came from the sky.

"I did not ask for you," I said.

"You did not ask for the sin," it said. "You did not ask for the hunger. You did not ask for the cold. You did not ask for your brother’s blood. Why do you ask for me?"

I shook my head. "I am tired. I want to rest."

"There is no rest," it said. "Only the end. And the end is not rest. The end is truth."

I turned away. I walked on. The shape did not follow. It did not need to. It was already inside me. It was the weight in my sack. It was the cold in my bones.

The fog lifted. Just a little. I saw the path ahead. It was straight. It led to a cliff. The cliff looked down on the sea. The sea was black. It was rough. It churned against the rocks.

I walked to the edge. I looked down. I could not see the bottom. I could not see the shore. I only saw the dark water.

I sat down. I put the sack on my lap. I pulled the strings tight. I held it. It was warm now. It was alive.

I closed my eyes. I remembered the bread. It was fresh. It was hot. I had torn it. I had eaten it. I had not shared it. I had hidden the crust. I had kept the best for myself.

I opened my eyes. The shape was there. It sat beside me. It did not look at me. It looked at the sea.

"Did you love him?" it asked.

I blinked. "My brother?"

"Thomas. Your brother."

I nodded. I could not speak. My throat was tight.

"Did you love him more than the bread?"

I thought. I thought of the hunger. I thought of the fear. I thought of the cold. I thought of Thomas’s face. He was smiling. He was kind. He was gentle. He had never raised his hand. He had never raised his voice.

"I loved him," I said. The words felt heavy. They felt false.

"Did you?" the shape asked.

I did not answer. I looked at my hands. They were rough. They were stained with dirt. They were the hands of a man who had taken. They were the hands of a man who had killed.

The wind blew. The fog returned. It swallowed the sea. It swallowed the cliff. It swallowed the shape. I was alone. I was never alone. I had never been alone. I was with the sin. I was with the witness.

I stood up. I lifted the sack. It was lighter now. It was empty. I did not know how it had become empty. I did not know when.

I walked to the edge. I looked down. The sea was gone. There was only dark. There was only silence.

I thought of justice. I thought of the law. I thought of the judge. I thought of the rope. I had expected pain. I had expected fire. I had expected hell.

But there was only this. This silence. This waiting.

Is this justice? I thought. Is this what it is to be righted?

I looked at the empty sack. I held it in my hand. It was just a bag. It was just cloth.

I had carried it for so long. I had carried it through the years. I had carried it through the prison. I had carried it through the fields. I had carried it through the snow.

Now it was empty.

I was free.

I was free to fall.

I stepped forward.

The air rushed past me. It was cold. It was clean.

I fell.

I did not scream. I did not cry out. I thought of Thomas. I thought of his smile. I thought of the bread. I thought of the hunger.

I was falling into the dark. I was falling into the truth.

I had believed I was punished. I had believed I was paying a debt. I had believed that if I suffered enough, I would be clean.

But I was not clean. I was never clean. I was the thief. I was the killer. I was the brother who had let him die.

The fall was long. It was slow. It was fast.

I saw the stars. They were bright. They were cold. They did not care.

I saw the moon. It was pale. It was full. It hung in the sky. It watched me fall.

It was like me. It was a witness. It was a holder of light. It gave its light. It took nothing back.

I had given my brother. I had taken his life.

The water was close. I could feel it. I could hear it.

I closed my eyes.

I was not afraid.

I was ready.

I hit the water.

It was cold. It was deep. It was dark.

I sank.

I sank.

I sank.

The fog remained. It covered the sea. It covered the cliff. It covered the path.

It did not move. It did not change.

It was there. It had always been there.

The wind blew. The trees stood still.

The light remained. It did not fade. It did not dim.

It held the sky. It held the night.

I was gone.

The path was empty.

The fog was thick.

The light was bright.