The Weight of What Was

The forest hung heavy beneath a sky swollen with mist. The road wound like a scar through the brambles and wet stones, narrowing into a thin thread of mud that tangled among crooked trees. The light that drifted through the clouds was faint—more shadow than sky—turning the air into a dim haze that blurred the edges of the world.

Orin’s boots pressed deep into the mud with every step, and still he walked. The rain clung to his cloak and skin, soaking through to the bone, dragging at him like an old regret. On his back, the bundle shifted, a familiar weight bound in linen and frayed cord. He carried it carefully, though it had grown heavier with the miles.

He shifted the burden, muttering to himself as he adjusted the strap digging into his shoulder. "Always heavier before the end." His staff tapped softly against the stones beneath the mud, keeping a rhythm matching his tired breath's drag. He did not walk to reach a place, only to leave what he could behind.

The forest pressed closer around him, and the rain hissed against the leaves, filling the silence with a sound that was barely more than a whisper. Somewhere behind him, just out of sight, a pale figure drifted through the mist.

Orin knew better than to turn. Vacants followed travelers who carried too much. They never hurried, never spoke—just waited.

He kept his eyes forward, hood pulled low.

Acknowledging it would give it strength.

The path wound through the tangled wood, sharp with the smell of wet leaves and old rot. The burden shifted again on his back, and Orin gritted his teeth. He knew what waited for him farther along the road, though he hadn’t given the thought permission to settle. He had made the journey before—many times in memory, only once in flesh. It always ended the same.

At the edge of the mist, the Vacant swayed, a blurred reflection of a man. It lingered, silent and shapeless, borrowing fragments of presence like an echo trying to find a voice.

Orin muttered under his breath, half-prayer, half-curse. "Not yet." He adjusted the strap, though the weight never eased. Burden never did—only shifted. His steps slowed as the path narrowed, winding over slick stones where the mud pooled deep.

The Vacant lingered near the tree line, as it had since dusk. They always did. They gathered around men who had carried too much for too long, waiting to see what would finally break loose.

The rites hadn’t helped—not then, not now. "Carry this burden from life to rest," he whispered, though it was more habit than hope. "Let it trouble the world no more."

The words meant nothing. The gods had stopped listening long ago.

The rain thickened, soaking through his cloak, cold as regret. Orin's breath dragged in his chest, every step a struggle against the weight that clung to him—not just the bundle on his back but the years beneath it. He tightened his grip on the staff, feeling the familiar wood beneath his fingers. A man needed something to hold to, even when everything else slipped away.

Ahead, the road opened into a clearing, a patch of earth bordered by twisted trees. The mist clung low, hiding the ground beneath a pale shroud. The air was sharp and damp, and the scent of decay was as if the forest itself was waiting for something to be laid down.

Orin slowed, his knees aching as he lowered the bundle to the ground. The weight left his back but not his bones. He let out a breath, mist curling from his lips, and knelt beside the bundle, untying the knotted cord with hands stiff from the cold.

The Vacant hovered at the edge of the clearing, a pale shadow without features, watching with the patience of the dead.

The cord gave way, frayed and brittle, and Orin pulled back the linen folds, layer by sodden layer. Each tug felt heavier than it should as if the burden had settled deep into the cloth and grown roots. His hands shook, but he kept going. There was no turning back from a burden once carried this far.

The last layer fell away.

Beneath the cloth lay a broken mirror, its surface fractured and blackened with age. Shards reflected fragments of a face he almost didn’t recognize—his own, hollow and worn.

Orin stared at the shattered glass, the truth settling over him like stone pressing against his chest. He had known all along, hadn’t he? Burdens weren’t always what they seemed. Sometimes, the hardest weight to carry was yourself.

The Vacant drifted closer, flickering like a ghost trying to find its shape. Its face—a hollow reflection of his own—shifted, tilting in mock curiosity. It waited, as if expecting him to understand.

He let out a slow and heavy breath as the truth settled deep into his bones. The burden had never been someone else's. It had been his all along—guilt, regret, a piece of himself he'd tried to lay down but couldn't.

Orin pressed his palm to the damp earth, feeling the cold bite against his skin. He whispered the words of the rite—not for anyone else, but for himself.

"Carry this burden from life to rest. Let it trouble the world no more."

The Vacant flickered at the edges, its form unraveling like mist drawn back into the sky. It dissolved, leaving only silence as if it had never existed.

But the weight in Orin’s chest remained—lighter now, though not gone. Burdens never vanished. They only grew smaller, manageable in pieces. He wrapped the mirror in the linen again, binding it with frayed cord, and laid it in the mud.

It was done. Or so he told himself.

The rain softened to a steady patter, gentle against the leaves. Orin stood slowly, pulling his hood low over his face, and leaned on the staff. The clearing was quiet, the road stretching forward into the mist. The gods were gone, but the words still mattered. Even if no one heard them.

He glanced once more at the bundle lying beneath the rain. The mirror could stay here—one less thing to carry. The journey would go on, as it always did.

And so he walked. Not because the burden was gone, but because the road remained.

And the road never waited.