The tower was already broken when I arrived.

It stood in the shadow of the Palace of St. Jude. It was my palace. It was the bone of the city. The stone was grey. It was cold. It wept.

I am a mason. I am old. My hands are rough. They are like bark. I have built for the King. I have built for the Pope. Now I build for the dust.

The wind howled. It cut through the mullions. It sounded like a scream. I wrapped my cloak tight. I felt the chill in my marrow. I felt the pain in my joints. It was a sharp pain. It was a white pain. It was the pain of the stone.

I climbed the stairs.

One step. Two steps.

The air was thin. The air was stale. It smelled of rot. It smelled of old blood. The walls were slick. They were wet. They were alive. They pulsed against my legs. I knew them. I had laid the first brick. I had mixed the mortar with my own sweat. I had mixed it with my own blood.

I reached the top.

The balcony was wide. The view was vast. I looked out over the city. The spires were sharp. They were needles. They pierced the sky. The sky was black. The stars were hidden. The clouds were low. They pressed down. They wanted to crush us.

I placed my tools on the ground.

The chisel. The hammer. The trowel.

They lay there. They were cold. They were heavy. They were dead.

I picked up the chisel.

I felt its weight. I felt its edge. It was sharp. It was hungry. It wanted to bite. I wanted to bite.

I looked at the tower.

It was cracking.

A hairline fracture. It ran from the base to the top. It was invisible to most. It was visible to me. I saw it. I felt it. It was in my chest. It was in my throat. It was in my mind.

The tower was dying.

I knew this. I had known this for years. The stone was tired. The stone was weak. The foundation was shifting. The earth was moving. The earth was hungry. It wanted to swallow us.

I could fix it.

I could patch the cracks. I could pour the new concrete. I could reinforce the beams. I could save the tower. I could save the city. I could save the King.

But I could not save myself.

The pain was too great.

It started in my left hand. It spread to my arm. It climbed to my shoulder. It reached my neck. It entered my skull. It burst behind my eyes.

I fell to my knees.

The stone was hard. It bit into my shins. I did not feel it. I only felt the fire. The white fire. It burned my veins. It boiled my blood.

I was sick.

I had been sick for a long time. I had hidden it. I had smiled. I had worked. I had lied. I told the King I was strong. I told the men I was well. I was not well. I was hollow. I was empty. I was a shell.

The wind gusted.

It pushed me. It nearly knocked me over. I grabbed the railing. The iron was cold. It burned my fingers. I held on. I held on.

I looked at the fracture again.

It was wider now.

A thread of white light shone through it. It was the moon. The moon was peeking through. It was mocking me. It was laughing.

I stood up.

My legs shook. My knees buckled. I straightened them. I forced myself to stand. I was a pillar. I was a column. I would not fall. Not yet.

I picked up the hammer.

It was heavy. It was so heavy. I could barely lift it. My muscles screamed. My bones groaned. I swung it.

One strike.

The stone crumbled.

Dust flew.

I coughed. I choked. The dust filled my mouth. It filled my lungs. I tasted it. It tasted of earth. It tasted of death.

I swung again.

Two strikes.

The crack widened.

The tower shuddered.

A low rumble. It came from below. It came from the ground. It came from the earth. It was a growl. It was a warning.

I swung a third time.

The hammer slipped. It fell. It hit the stone. It shattered. The handle broke. The head flew away. It disappeared into the dark.

I was left with nothing.

My hands were empty.

My hands were bare.

I looked at the fracture.

It was huge now. It was a gash. It was a wound. The tower was bleeding. The stone was bleeding. The dust was falling. It fell like snow. It fell like ash.

I realized the truth.

I had not been fighting the disease.

I had been feeding it.

My anger. My pride. My need to control. They were the rot. They were the crack. They were the disease. I was the disease. I was the fracture. I was the weakness.

I had built the tower to be eternal. I wanted it to last forever. I wanted it to defy time. I wanted it to defy death. I was wrong.

Nothing lasts.

All things break.

All things end.

The pain was gone.

The fire had died.

I felt cold. I felt light. I felt free.

I looked at the King’s palace below.

The lights were on. The windows glowed. The candles burned. The King was sleeping. He was dreaming. He was dreaming of power. He was dreaming of glory. He did not know. He did not see. He did not know that the ground was shifting. He did not know that the stone was breaking. He did not know that the end was here.

I was the mason. I knew. I had to tell him.

I had to warn him.

I opened my mouth.

I tried to shout.

No sound came.

My throat was tight. My throat was dry. My throat was stone.

I tried again.

Nothing.

Only the wind.

The wind screamed.

The wind howled.

The wind sang.

It was a beautiful song. It was a sad song. It was a song of ending. It was a song of release.

I looked at the tower one last time.

It was leaning.

It was tilting.

It was falling.

Slowly.

Gracefully.

Like a giant taking a bow.

Like a king yielding to the night.

The stone groaned.

The mortar cracked.

The beams snapped.

The dust rose.

It rose like a cloud. It rose like a ghost. It rose like a spirit. It surrounded me. It enveloped me. It embraced me.

I closed my eyes.

I let it in.

I let the dust fill me.

I let the silence fill me.

I let the dark fill me.

I was no longer a man.

I was no longer a mason.

I was the stone.

I was the dust.

I was the wind.

I was the end.

The tower fell.

The sound was immense. It was deafening. It was the sound of the world breaking. It was the sound of history ending. It was the sound of freedom.

The shockwave hit me.

It pushed me back.

I flew over the edge.

I fell.

The air rushed past me. The city spun below. The lights were streaks. The streets were lines. The people were ants. They were running. They were screaming. They were dying.

I did not scream.

I did not run.

I fell.

I fell into the dark.

I fell into the void.

I felt no pain.

I felt no fear.

I felt only peace.

I was free.

I was finally free.

The stone was broken.

The blade was distant.

The end was near.

I closed my eyes.

I waited.

I waited for the ground.

I waited for the silence.

I waited for the peace.

The ground was there.

The silence was there.

The peace was there.

I was gone.