Laden with Iniquity

Falling rain filled the air just as Silas Kerevin finally let the idea take root in his mind. This damp sky suited Greybourne University relatively well. Stone soaked up moisture, arches dripped trails, while water spilled beyond the rim of the central fountain, as if restraint no longer mattered. Thin streams moved without a rush along old pillars — silent witnesses to hurried footsteps below, unaware of time passing above.

Something about Silas gave people uncertainty — a quiet sort of presence, barely noticed. Not missing, exactly, yet never quite part of things either. His peers found space around him without meaning to. Stillness clung to him, thick enough to unsettle his mind a bit. Attention from him felt heavy, too focused, too long. Faces turned away before laughter reached its mark. They chose silence and just shaped it into comfort. Absence worked better than explanation.

Lections with Dr. Severin Korr were when Silas came closest to feeling grounded. Ethics, to Korr, weren’t abstract — more like an obligation etched deep into who people are. Vagueness never lasted long around him. Weak logic fell apart under his radar, though he stayed quiet while doing it. In his manner sat order, control, and a sharp stillness that Silas looked up to.

What caught Silas’s attention, though, wasn’t Dr. Korr’s mind, even if it was quick enough, but how he changed when his wife walked in. Though the room was filled with debate, silence seemed to follow her footsteps. Because she carried warmth as if it were something rare. She moved without hurry, carrying a thermos with her. Not shy, never pausing to ask for permission to come in. Then came those quiet words: “You’ve forgotten to eat again.”

At first, Korr would freeze — jaw clenched, hands still — but soon something gave way. Almost like clockwork, calming down after too much tension. One second where he wasn’t known for lectures or degrees. His hands shook slightly, something she caught right away. She studied him slowly, like checking each part of how he stood and spoke. Worry lived there, clearly, so did loyalty. That look disturbed Korr deeper than it comforted him. He couldn’t name the last person who saw him that way — like guarding him mattered above all.

Around that time, Silas’s mother spent years unwell until she passed. Quiet in her care, worn down by tiredness, that is how she showed love. Silence filled the home once she was gone. Work swallowed up his father completely; talks were empty, only about what needed doing. Watching instead of asking — kind of like his own son, standing alone. Like father, like son.

Later that day, after class, rumours flew to him by the exit. A student giggled softly: “His mom phones nonstop. Must feel like being trapped”. Another answered: “She worries too much about him getting hurt. It borders on obsession”. Obsession clung to Silas’s thoughts well past silence.

Rain tapped lightly on his room’s glass that night. Slowly, Silas started questioning just how thin the line between dread and care could be. He claimed it was only curiosity. When does concern twist so far that it becomes fear? What happens when worry slips into fear?

Days passed while Silas went over it again and again. Quietly, he worked on adjusting his voice, shifting how it sounded until it was just right. Not just choosing phrases, but shaping them. Every piece fits into something larger, like a puzzle coming together. In his mind, the result couldn’t go beyond unease, maybe awkwardness. It didn’t occur to him that if fear built too fast, it might crack the person carrying it.

Midnight had barely passed when the phone rang. Rain tapped on empty walkways, the only sound across the dark campus. Coldness crept into Silas’s fingers while dialing in digits. On the second ring, Matilda Korr picked up — her words slow, heavy with rest but sharpened by worry. A quiet “Hello?” floated through the line. He told her his name, then said he worked at the school. A story about her sweet boy came up. Though he didn’t say much, his tone made it clear — this was important. Confusion flickered across her face at first. But then her breath caught, shaky between pauses. Questions spilled one after another, piling up on top of each other. Still going through his plan, Silas kept to the rhythm he’d set.

Then – nothing. Just silence where it shouldn’t be. A crack split the air. Something dropped hard. Silas called her name. Again. Nothing came back. The call hung on, empty except for a soft hum, before cutting out.

He looked at the device as if it owed him answers. Fog filled his thoughts, slow and thick. She’d just blacked out – surely – she’d wake soon. Someone upstairs must have heard; surely they’d help. Half-promises went through his head until dawn filled the sky.

Word reached students, piece by piece. Later came sharper terms: cardiac arrest without warning. No lead-up. Darkness still hung in the air when Matilda Korr had passed away.

A weight dropped into him, heavy and quiet. Nothing cracked open, nothing spun out of place. School stopped for just a morning. The talk among the students quieted, almost as if they were measuring each syllable. Pityful glances showed up in people across campus. Most folks drifted away fast, like they usually do when grief isn’t theirs to carry.

In the lecture hall, Dr. Severin Korr was still there. At first sight, his features looked the same – yet not quite. Something weighed behind his gaze, a quiet weariness where brightness once lived. He stood before students again, just days after the burial. “A good heart cannot cancel the harm done,” came his voice steady through silence. “What matters is not just aim, but results.”

Each phrase landed heavily on Silas, even though their eyes never met. Later, once the lecture ended, Korr asked him to stay behind. Rain tapped on the windows, filling the silence of the empty room. “It was you,” Korr stated calmly, eyes fixed ahead. His voice held nothing sharp — just a flat truth.

A knot formed in his stomach. He’d pictured arguing, maybe shouting — but not such stillness. “I… I was not aiming towards that.” Silas managed, voice thin, his words coming out jumbled. “Your aim was clearly disruption,” came the reply. “Curiosity drove you – to test how panic spreads and emotion became your trial run.” Not shouted, yet each phrase landed heavily.

At that moment, he realised that his curiosity wasn’t harmless. But it had moved without a care in the world. Above someone else’s emotions, he’d put himself first. “Love ran deep in her,” said Korr. “And tied to that love sat fear, which you used to your advantage.” Nothing came to him in reply.

After days passed, most people saw less of him. Even classrooms held fewer visitors than before. Alone, he moved down wet sidewalks past the university. Pages piled up fast, one after another, thoughts spilling out — never meant for anyone else, maybe never even meant for him.

Who was Silas really? Could someone like him have done what he’d done all along? Maybe that curiosity wasn’t honest at all, more like hiding something sharp beneath it all. The guilt stayed as it grew heavier each day. Dreams were filled with ringing phones that never stopped. When he picked up, silence came through the line instead of speech. Trying to understand was useless as his thoughts melted into nothing each time.

Places where Matilda used to be became ones he walked around, not toward. Without her soft remarks during class, the room seemed somehow strangely tilted. Stillness filled the space where she once stood, louder than any sound she made.

Changes came to Dr. Korr, too, quieter, hidden beneath the surface. Routine stayed, yet his words in class now held a quiet hush, a kind of restraint. Talks shifted — more about what it means to be alive, how tiny choices press down hard. Sometimes he’d look at Silas, not angrily, just carrying a look that felt heavier than anger: letdown.

Time moved forward, slowly and steadily. Stillness settled where downpours once crashed.

That night, under a washed-out sky, Silas stepped into the chapel on campus. Dark pews stretched like bones across the floor. He dropped to his knees – not belief pulling him down, but confusion and sorrow. Thoughts had worn grooves into his skull, constant echoes he could no longer outrun now. Playing pretend with motives felt hollow, and empty noise sat beside him.

Quietly, the door swung open at his back. In walked Dr. Korr, boots muffled on old wood floors. Face to face, they stayed, lit only by flickering candles. “This won’t be forgiven, Silas,” came Korr’s words. Calm, he sounded – and yet sorrow curled under each syllable. “To forgive means fixing something broken; this isn’t fixable.”

Silas bowed his head in despair, eyes watering. After a breath, he spoke: “ So where do I go from here?” “Forward,” replied Korr. “Breathing, moving this weight- still carrying this weight. Let it reshape how you walk through days”. Stillness followed Korr’s voice, cold and clear. Those lines cut through him like frost on glass. Only now did it occur: sorrow by itself changes nothing. Pain might carve someone into stone instead of wisdom — just as likely.

Out the door he walked beneath clouds heavy with shedding rain. This moment stuck inside him. Every step forward bent around it somehow. Who he trusted, how he moved through days – they’d all bent here. Weight stayed.

Life at Greybourne carried on like it always had. With each passing week, fresh faces showed up on campus. Classes settled back into their familiar pattern. Only when storms drenched the grounds did the fountain spill over. For Silas and Korr, everything split — what came earlier, what came later.

Solving feelings was no longer how Silas viewed his inner world. At first, he tried seeing things through others’ eyes instead of breaking them down. Volunteering at the student support office gave him a chance to stay quiet while people spoke. Words poured onto paper in notes meant only for drawers, full of regret shaped by late realizations.

Rain came back one day as it had so many times before. This time, though, the sound didn’t just fill the space in his mind. Coldness touched his skin, sharp and true. Not an idea to poke at, life showed up raw instead. Breakable, here, gone before you blink — that’s how it was. Nothing fixed the past that was once done. Just slow days ahead, shaping a self that wouldn’t feed on someone else’s dread.

Now there stood Silas, face upturned as gray skies pressed low. Rain slipped down his neck, cold and slow — each drop like a whisper from before. It wasn’t big, yet it meant something he couldn’t wrap his head around. Clouds piled up above, heavy with more than water; they carried moments he couldn’t unlive.

Matilda appeared before him, not in flesh but a feeling — the sway of her steps, how she spoke without wasting words. She gave love like it cost nothing, even when it must have cost everything. Cold drops kept falling, each one cracking open some sacred truth. Pain hadn’t taught him quickly, but it taught him deep. Bonds matter — not loud ones, just meaningful ones.

Laughter from others used to bounce off of Silas. Now, it lands differently, it settles inside, it feels close. Looking for conversations, he leaned into clarity rather than picking things apart, opening up to people without holding back. When silence settled, and he was by himself, pages opened before him, a pen ready. Words flowed — not on ideas or deep thoughts — but on stressful, tangled moments that make us human. Pages filled with dread, affection, thin between the feelings of living and breaking. Emotions twisted together, forming what it actually means to be alive.

With each shift in weather, a steady peace began to grow inside him, step by step. Stillness followed the downpour, not punishment anymore but something a tiny bit softer. Water sank into the soil like a breath returning after holding it in for too long.

Later visits came without warning – just feet finding their way to a quiet marker half-hidden by moss. Flowers appeared there each time, placed slowly, meaning more than words ever did. Regret sat beside thanks; both took space on cold stone. Words slip out near her name, low and uneven – sorry, tangled with what he remembered. What remained wasn’t a ghost or a vision, just a comforting, yet unsettling warmth when the wind moved through leaves overhead.

Later, walking through the school grounds, he wandered like a lost puppy, searching for his owner. Rain tapped gently against the pavement, a noise he knew all too well, so he stopped, shut his eyes, and let water trace his skin. Droplets raced down his neck as he stood silent in the courtyards of the campus, still, not moving a muscle. One would think his mind was racing with thoughts and anxiety. Strangely enough, his mind was empty like a vacant void in the shadows of a desolate street.

There, sitting in soaking clothes that now hung loose on his figure, he was ruminating. He rolled up his soaking wet sleeve and checked the time. 4:47 p.m – the watch read. Korr’s lectures had finished at four, and his shift wouldn’t end until 5:35. Silas stood for merely half a second there in the rain, shaking. Then he was replaced by movement. His shoes squeaked beneath the tiles of the halls, something he would normally try to prevent to avoid being noticed. He was too rushed by anticipatory anxiety to care at such a time, though.

After what felt like an hour, he found himself standing in front of the lecture hall. Room 401 – Ethics and Moral Philosophy. His knuckles bent, forming a fist that he held out to the door. He made his presence known and knocked. Two hollow knocks filled the air and seemed to travel down the halls. After a moment of silence, a muffled voice was heard: “Come in.” He twisted the door handle and crossed the threshold.

“Rough weather,” Korr acknowledged before briefly capping his pen.

He felt the memory rise again. In the afternoon, when her voice was cracking, the thud sent shivers down his spine. His gaze narrowed to a pinprick, refusing to acknowledge the mirror of his soul.

At that moment, Silas felt the words rising. He could explain these wrongdoings; he could confess that he knew that she was breaking and that he chose convenience over her. His chest tightened, jaw clenched, hands trembling. The words flowed into his head like a forbidden proclamation of an unforgivable sin.

“Why did you say what you said that day?”Korr gently cut through the silence without asking why he was there. It was all very clear.

Silas opened his mouth. The truth stood there, fully formed on the tip of his tongue. Unbearably ugly, but simple. His jaw locked, and instead, he heard himself say, “I didn’t think she meant it.”

Dr. Korr studied him for a moment, his piercing gaze hovering over his soaked clothes. “And what if she did mean it? What if she did, hm?” Dr. Severin Korr felt his tears rising to a bare sting in his eyes, but swallowed them whole.

“She didn’t say it clearly.” – a flat lie it was. Defensive and structured just in the moment when justice could have settled in.

“Intent, Silas…” Dr. Korr said quietly, letting a moment of silence escape, “does not in any way, shape, or form erase impact.” He said in the same tone he used during his lectures.

He could turn back now. He could still confess, could still fix a part of this. But an unknown force that lay in him refused to tear itself open in such ways. He chose to hold the lie in place.

Dr. Korr picked up his pen once again. “Living with what you’ve done,” He said, his eyes gazing towards the paper for a moment, “means not reshaping it into something easier to handle.”

The words landed without force. But a truth that stayed in place.

He stood there looking more disoriented than ever beside Dr. Korr. His mind was just as empty as it was racing with thoughts.

Five minutes later, he had left the lecture hall, and the rain had stopped. He did not, however, return to his dorm room to hide. He did not know where he was going either. He walked around campus, the city center, then the park, and finally, when the clock hit midnight, he found himself walking in uninhabited valleys.

There, Silas saw a woman in what seemed to be her mid 40’s. She was carrying heavy grocery bags, which brought up some recent memories. Although he had no reason to at first, he went up to her. Seemed like a part of his destiny. Without a word, he tried to help her carry her cumbersome bags. The woman smiled weakly :

“Oh, thank you. My apartment is just a few blocks away. I appreciate your doing.”

“It’s okay…” – he murmured in return, not really keeping track of what he’s really doing.

“Turns out being a single mother of two isn’t the easiest thing in the world…” – the woman interrupted the stillness.

“Mother of two?” he repeated in an almost trance-like state.

“Yeah. Their father got caught up in drugs.” – a moment of silence began, she was thinking if it was appropriate to treat a stranger like a therapist. “Turns out watching football with his buddies and getting a good high is of greater priority than taking care of your wife and kids, huh. You think you have time, that you can fix it all tomorrow, but there never is a tomorrow,” – she continued, being too tired to care that she’s treating him like a personal psychologist, unaware how deeply those words would take root inside him.

He walked alongside her, staying quiet as a stick, nodding once or twice, his hands shaking and trembling, feeling too tired to carry bags like a surmount. He repeated phrases that seemed to dig claws into both of them. He, yet again, had no idea where he was, what he was doing, or why he was doing it.

The woman kept running at her mouth before realising that she’d reached her so-called home.

“Oh, well. Nevertheless, thank you for your help.”

He dipped his head in a way of saying ‘no problem’. Just as he was walking away, the woman’s voice found its way into his ears once again.

“I never got your name,” she spoke up in a brighter tone.

For a second, the name felt foreign on his tongue. As if it belonged to somebody who still deserved it.

“I – uhh… I’m Silas.” – The words came out jumbled, his own name feeling foreign on his tongue. He was too exhausted to realise.

“Marken. Marken Miller,” the woman said automatically. “Silas, I’m a stranger you gazed upon on the street. Your immediate reaction was to help me carry my bags. Now… I’m no psychoanalyst, but a normal person wouldn’t do that. You’re carrying something that isn’t yours alone… or perhaps it is.”

The words lingered palpably. He felt his throat closing up again – a familiar feeling. He was too tired to lie and bawl his eyes out. He was on the verge of confessing. On the verge of asking for what is unwanted at the moment, yet desired so deeply.

“Take care of them…” he said. It sounded like advice, really; it was just self-accusation.

Midnight came and went as it usually did. By the time morning came around, when the sun was rising, Silas came to the realisation that he still had lectures to attend. So, as always, he put on the same gray hoodie, worn-down jeans, and made his way to the Forensic Anthropology Department. Classes came and went. From 6 a.m. to 2 p.m., he had to participate in Forensic Anthropology with Dr. Culver Brown, Palliative Care Studies with Mr. Themstone, and Grief Counseling Certification Track with Dr. Kaelström.

“HEY, PAY ATTENTION YOU BONELESS BAGS!!!” – Dr. Kaelström bellowed. “Paper due tomorrow on dysregulated responses to abrupt bereavement. I expect all papers to be handed in before midnight,” – she continued commandingly.

The phrase stuck – dysregulates responses to abrupt bereavement. At first, when Silas heard the verbiage, it wasn’t quite clear to him what it meant. Well, that was before he sat down to think about it. And there, sitting at his desk, Silas thought about it, repeating the terms like he was going crazy.

Dysregulated responses to abrupt bereavement.

‘A sudden loss can have a great impact on a person…’ Silas started writing before subtly putting the pen down. He cupped his face in his hands, almost as if he was about to pray. His back moved in a rhythm that resembled the beat of techno music. Soon enough, gut-wrenching sobs were heard from the inside of his dorm room.

He was murmuring pure profanity and obscenity under his breath. His eyes were bloodshot, his face soaked in salty tracks. A few minutes later, he was curled up on the floor, looking like a shrimp that was being cooked for a five-star meal. A crash in the soul, a ballistic, livid tempest was arising within him.

He had kept his emotions in like a sacred mistake for as long as he could remember. He was exposing the raw nerve of imagery, turning my ineffable metaphors into rubble. Or maybe he was being human in a perhaps sophisticated way. The feeling of guilt was in his eyes, in his ears, in his blood, in his tears. It rushed through him like electric bolts.

And there came a whim, and a rather strange one at that. Perhaps it lingered in his consciousness for a moment too long. And of course, what does one do when a consideration has sauntered since a blue moon? – one acts on it. And so Silas did.

Dark-washed jeans, black jacket, shirt with black and dark grey stripes, along with dark Converse. He brought a pen, a small notebook that used to be his journal. He ripped the pages where he used to talk about his day, about how he truly felt, about things nobody knew, and threw them away; a few words from them caught his eye for no apparent reason. Headphones, his phone, and he was off to one knows where. He strolled through the kenopsia with unusual pace. His feet used to waste not a second on returning to the ground to take yet another step, but now seemed to drag like ambient music. The music from his headphones could be heard from a mile away. His face wore a stone-like expression, and bruised moonlight shone beneath his tired eyes. Shadows cast by heavy thought, a charcoal of fading dusk, followed in his footsteps.

A buzzing was soon heard from his pocket, where he kept his phone. Nobody ever really called him, and he was definitely taken aback, but showed no sign of it. He slowly pulled out his phone and came to a realisation. It could never be someone calling him. He had 4 contacts in his phone – his father, the university counselor, his Linguistics professor, and his mother’s number, which he still hasn’t been able to bring himself to delete, even though it was useless. It wasn’t a phone number, though. An alarm for 11.38 p.m. ‘Notes.’ – it said.

He swiftly turned it off and continued. Through the dark, shallow streets, he made his way to a bridge just at the end of town. He walked through a quarter of it and then stopped just at the railing. To his surprise, no cars came by. “Better,” he thought. “No need for anyone to see how pathetic I am.” He pulled out his notebook and pen and started writing almost frantically. ‘To Dad’, ‘To Mom’, ‘To Dr. Severin Korr’ – three notes if one counts right. As he finished writing them, he stopped, stared into the starry skies, the breeze broke against his face, then looked back at the notes, rereading them as if they had a point.

He stuffed the three notes into his pockets and stood up, his hands reaching towards the railing. He stared down for a few minutes before lifting a leg. His heart was racing for a reason he couldn’t get down. He sat on the railing and put his hands on it, preparing to push himself.

“SILAS!!!” – a voice screamed through the endless dark pit. He thought it was just his imagination.

“SILAS WAIT!!!” – the same voice was heard, sounding like it was coming closer. Then he turned around.

There stood a boy his age. It was Waylen. A guy he’d seen from Ethics lectures. Silas stood there, more puzzled than ever.

“What the heck are you doing here?!” – he whisper-shouted almost frantically.

“Wait… Please – I know why you’re here. Just please come and listen to me.” Waylen said between breaths with his voice cracking. He waited a second to take a breath and rest before speaking again. “I did it,” he said.

Silas looked at him with pure confusion spreading across his face. “What?!” – he murmured.

“I was the one who called Matilda, Silas.” – Waylen continued, still struggling to breathe and to keep his voice from cracking. “I – I uhh… I did call her,” – he said between sobs. “I called her and… I tried to act like you, so I wouldn’t ruin my reputation, Silas. I did it. I did it because I thought that nobody really knew how you spoke or acted, and nobody would suspect you.” – Waylen was sobbing, his tears painting the ground.

Silas just stood there. Existing in the cold air breeze, a kid breaking down, beneath his shadow. He had no idea what to do, say, or how to act. Should he comfort him, should he walk away, should he ask questions, should he report him?

“I’m sorry…” – Waylen said, barely audible through his sobs and lack of breath. “I know what it’s like to be the quiet kid in the corner, and I just wanted to make people laugh. I didn’t stop, and I didn’t realise when I was going too far. I’m so sorry, Silas.” – Waylen was almost screaming in agony; he was in unbearable pain both physically and mentally.

That was the last of the night that Silas could recall.

The rest of the days in Greybourne University were out of the ordinary in a way nobody could comprehend or explain. Everything felt quieter, more still, more like everyone was holding their breath. Or so only Silas thought. In reality, the story had already begun to shift in small, unnoticed ways long ago.

Some students remembered that the boy who had actually called Matilda that night spoke far too confidently for a guy like Silas. When the university office later checked the phone logs, the number that placed the calls was not at all connected to Silas’s phone. Silas did not have her number.

The number that called belonged to a whole other student.

A student who had been known for jokes that always went a step too far. The one who never quite grasped when laughter had turned uncomfortable.

Waylen.

It was Waylen all along. And well… by the time the truth had come to life, Silas had already revisited Matilda. Silas was gone. Silas Kerevin – a quiet, diligent kid who was simply placed in the wrong for something that was never truly his sin to carry. He went through such guilt not because he actually did it, but because his voice was never truly heard. Never truly there in any way. Like a closed book – serene and unread. He inhabited a profound stillness in his soul. A stillness that was misread as guilt. Like a poet whose words were never truly understood, to make him successful. A dead poet whose mind was too deep for the shallow shores of a riddle that best remained unsolved.