"You have three years left, Nils. Count them carefully."

The elder’s voice was flat, a stone dropped into deep water. Nils Forsberg stood at the edge of the badlands, the heat shimmer on the road bending the air until the cliffs looked like they were breathing. He was twelve years old, though his joints ached with the stiffness of a man twice his age. The path behind him was worn smooth, a boundary line carved into the earth by generations of footsteps. He had walked it backward for three years, step by slow step, to keep Elara’s fever from breaking her body. The debt was real. The cost was his youth, siphoned off into the mist that clung to the fjord.

The elder, a man of stone and silence, held a ledger open on his knee. The pages were stained with grease and salt.

"Here," the elder said, tapping a line. "Your name. Erased. Then written again. Then erased."‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠​⁠​‍‍‍‍‍​​‌‍⁠​⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍‌‍​​‌‍‍‌‌‍‍‍‍​‍⁠⁠⁠‍‌​⁠⁠​⁠⁠‌‍‌⁠​‌

Nils looked at the ledger. The ink was fresh, wet, and black. He saw his own name, Nils Forsberg, scrawled in a hand that shook. Beside it was a date, three years past. And beside that, a column of numbers that did not add up. The arithmetic was a trap, a loop that consumed itself. He had thought the sickness was a curse from the sea, a punishment for the fish they had not taken. He had not known it was a transaction.

"Stop," Nils said. "If I stop, she dies." He remembered, too, one hundred and nine of the Bellfounders' Walk — the kind of small thing a man carries for no reason he could name.

"Stop, and you live. Continue, and you vanish. The path absorbs one year per step in reverse. You have paid the price of her fever, Nils. Now you pay the price of her life."‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠​⁠​‍‍‍‍‍​​‌‍⁠​⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍‌‍​​‌‍‍‌‌‍‍‍‍​‍⁠⁠⁠‍‌​⁠⁠​⁠⁠‌‍‌⁠​‌

The heat shimmer intensified. The air tasted of iron and old pennies. Nils looked at his hands. They were spotted with age, the skin thin and translucent. He could see the blue veins beneath, pulsing with a strength that felt borrowed. He thought of Elara, vibrant and young in their small house, her laughter bright against the grey walls. He thought of the sea chest that had come back alone from the ferry crossing, empty and salt-crusted, waiting for a story that would never be told. The machine that replaced the crew this month sat idle in the yard, a metal beast with no soul. The applause that would not end echoed in the hills, a phantom sound from a festival that had passed.

Nils took a step backward. The ground gave way slightly, a soft sigh of soil.

"I am not stopping," he said.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠​⁠​‍‍‍‍‍​​‌‍⁠​⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍‌‍​​‌‍‍‌‌‍‍‍‍​‍⁠⁠⁠‍‌​⁠⁠​⁠⁠‌‍‌⁠​‌

The elder nodded, closing the ledger. The sound was final, like a door slamming. He remembered, too, the Larkspurn tobacco tin — the kind of small thing a man carries for no reason he could name.

Nils walked. Each step cost him a year. His knees buckled, then held. His vision blurred, then sharpened. The mist thickened, swallowing the cliff edge. He felt his body beginning to fade, the edges of his form softening into the grey air. He did not look back. He could not. The love was primal, a root that held him to the earth even as the earth let go.

Elara found the journal on the table. The pages were brittle, the ink faded. She read the entries, the dates, the arithmetic. She ran to the cliff, her breath tearing at her throat. The path was dissolving, the boundary line erasing itself into the rock. She saw him, a silhouette in the mist, reaching for the center of the path.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠​⁠​‍‍‍‍‍​​‌‍⁠​⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍‌‍​​‌‍‍‌‌‍‍‍‍​‍⁠⁠⁠‍‌​⁠⁠​⁠⁠‌‍‌⁠​‌

"Nils!" she screamed.

He did not turn. He reached the center, where the boundary blurred, and his body began to fade into the void that sustained her. He was gone.

Elara stood at the edge, holding a root. It was dry, brittle, and brown. The mist cleared, and the cliff remained, empty and worn. The sea chest sat in the corner of the room, open and empty. The ledger lay on the table, the names erased. The heat shimmer on the road bent the air, and the applause that would not end finally stopped, leaving only the silence of the fjord.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠​⁠​‍‍‍‍‍​​‌‍⁠​⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍‌‍​​‌‍‍‌‌‍‍‍‍​‍⁠⁠⁠‍‌​⁠⁠​⁠⁠‌‍‌⁠​‌