The bell rang. Not a church bell. A shop bell. Brass and bright. It shook the air in the glass shop.

Silas stared at the door. It was closed. He had locked it. He was sure.

"Who's there?" he called. His voice was thin. It scraped the dust.

No answer. Only the hum. The air hummed. A low, golden hum.

Silas turned. The workbench was empty. The lamp was dead. But the glass was glowing. A single vase. Small. Blue. It sat in the center of the board.

It was not his work. He did not make blue. He made clear. He made shape. Blue was for others.

He picked it up. It was warm. Too warm. It pulsed against his palm. Like a heart.

"Mine," he whispered.

He put it in the box. The wooden box. He closed the lid. The light died. The hum stopped.

The door opened.

A man stood there. Tall. Grey coat. Eyes like chips of flint.

"Mr. Holloway?" the man said.

Silas did not move. His hands were shaking. "Yes."

"I am looking for the blue piece."

"The blue piece?" Silas frowned. "I don't have a blue piece."

The man stepped in. He looked at the box. "That is what it looks like."

Silas felt a cold spike in his chest. "It is a clear vase. I made it this morning."

The man smiled. It was a cold smile. "Is it?"

He reached out. He took the box. He opened it. The blue vase sat there. Glowing.

Silas wanted to scream. He wanted to hit him. But his arms were heavy. They were made of lead.

"Take it," Silas said.

The man nodded. "Good."

He left. The door closed. The bell rang.

Silas sat down. He looked at his hands. They were clean. There was no glass dust. There was no heat.

He had not made the vase.

He had never made a blue vase.

But he remembered the shape. The curve. The way the light bent. He remembered the fire. He remembered the breath.

It was in his mind. Sharp. Clear.

He stood up. He went to the kiln. It was cold.

He struck a match. The flame jumped. He fed the coal. The fire grew.

He needed to make it. He needed to prove it was his.

He took the clear glass. He heated it. It melted. He blew into the pipe. The bubble swelled.

He shaped it. He worked the iron tools. He spun it. He smoothed it.

He made a vase. Clear. Perfect.

He let it cool.

It was not blue.

He stared at it. It was just glass.

He threw it. It smashed on the floor.

Shards. White sparks.

He picked up the pieces. He held them to his ear.

He heard the hum.

It was inside the glass.

He put the pieces in a bag. He threw the bag in the bin.

He went to the back room. There was a mirror. Old. Cloudy.

He looked at himself. His face was pale. His eyes were red.

"You are a thief," the mirror said.

Silas stepped back. "I am not."

"You took the light," the mirror said. "You kept it."

Silas touched his chest. It hurt.

He went to the front room. He opened the door.

The street was empty. The sky was grey.

A woman walked by. She wore a red hat. She looked at the shop window. She looked at the sign.

SILAS HOLLOWAY. GLASS.

She walked on.

Silas closed the door.

He sat at the table. He waited.

The bell rang.

A boy entered. Small. Dirty. He held a bag.

"I have glass," the boy said. "Broken. But good."

"How much?" Silas asked.

"Five pence."

Silas gave him the coins. The boy left.

Silas looked at the bag. It was full of shards.

He picked one up. It was blue.

Just a sliver. A tiny line of blue.

He held it up to the light.

It glowed.

He felt a pull. A tug. In his gut.

He knew where it came from.

He went to the back room. He opened the closet.

There was a box. Wooden. Locked.

He had the key. It was on his belt.

He opened the box.

Inside were ten vases. All blue. All glowing.

He had made them. One by one. Over the years.

He had forgotten.

Or he had wanted to forget.

The blue was a curse. It was a gift.

It was both.

He touched the first vase. It was warm.

He remembered the man. The grey coat.

He had come back. Every week. He bought one vase. He paid well.

Silas never asked why.

He just sold them.

The last vase was empty. The box was bare.

He had sold them all.

He looked at the sliver of blue in his hand.

It was the last piece.

He put it in the box.

He closed the lid.

He locked it.

He put the key in the bin.

He went to the window.

The red hat woman was back. She was standing across the street. She was looking at him.

She raised her hand. She waved.

Silas did not wave back.

He turned away.

He went to the kiln. He lit the fire.

He took the clear glass.

He heated it.

He blew.

He made a vase. Clear. Simple.

He let it cool.

It was beautiful.

It was empty.

He put it on the shelf.

The bell rang.

The man in the grey coat entered.

"Is it ready?" the man asked.

Silas looked at the shelf. The clear vase.

"Yes," Silas said.

The man took the vase. He held it up.

It was clear.

The man frowned. "Where is the blue?"

"I sold them all," Silas said.

The man's face darkened. "You lied to me."

"I did not lie," Silas said. "I am honest."

"You are a fool," the man said. "You threw away the gold."

"I threw away the curse," Silas said.

The man stared at him. His eyes were hard.

"You will regret this," the man said.

He left. The door closed.

Silas sat down.

He felt light.

The hum was gone.

The air was still.

He looked at his hands.

They were clean.

He looked at the mirror.

His face was calm.

He was free.

But the room was cold.

The fire in the kiln was dying.

The clear vase on the shelf was fading.

It was becoming invisible.

Silas reached for it.

His hand passed through.

He tried again.

His hand passed through.

The vase was gone.

He looked at the box.

The lid was open.

The blue sliver was gone.

He looked at the floor.

There was no glass. There was no dust.

There was nothing.

He stood up.

He walked to the door.

He opened it.

The street was gone.

There was only white. A white void.

He stepped out.

The white took him.

He did not fall. He floated.

He looked down.

He saw the shop. It was small. It was far away.

He saw the kiln. It was black.

He saw the mirror. It was dark.

He saw the man in the grey coat. He was standing in the white. He was holding a blue vase.

The man looked up.

He smiled.

Silas saw his own face in the man's eyes.

He was not Silas.

He was the glass.

He was the light.

He was the echo.

The man raised the vase.

The blue light flared.

It hit Silas.

It was warm.

It was home.

Silas closed his eyes.

He opened them.

He was in the shop.

The bell was ringing.

The man in the grey coat was there.

"Is it ready?" the man asked.

Silas looked at the shelf.

The blue vase was there.

It was glowing.

"Yes," Silas said.

He gave it to him.

The man left.

Silas sat down.

He lit the kiln.

He made a new vase.

Blue.

He sold it.

The cycle continued.

He was the merchant.

He was the keeper.

He was the curse.

The bell rang.

The door opened.

Silas smiled.

It was a cold smile.

He was ready.