The banquet hall smelled of wax and decay.

It was a Tuesday. Or perhaps a Thursday. The calendar on the wall had stopped turning three years ago. The numbers remained frozen in a red, jagged arc. No one questioned it. The air was thick with the scent of lilies that had died and dried into brown husks. They sat in the center of the table. They were beautiful. They were rot.

Julian sat at the head. He was seven. He wore a suit that was too large for his small frame. The buttons strained against the fabric. He held a glass of water. The water was clear. It was still. It did not ripple.

Across the table sat his father. Edward. Edward was not there. Edward was a chair. The chair was empty. But the chair moved. The chair shifted its weight. The chair breathed.

Julian looked at the chair. He did not blink. Blinking was forbidden. Blinking was a form of surrender.

The other guests were present. They were not people. They were silhouettes cut from black velvet. They sat in rows. They did not eat. They did not speak. They watched. Their eyes were mirrors. In the mirrors, Julian saw himself. But the Julian in the mirror was older. The Julian in the mirror was tired. The Julian in the mirror wanted to leave.

Julian looked away.

The host stood up. The host was tall. The host wore a mask of white porcelain. The mask had no features. Only smooth, blank curves.

"Welcome," the host said. The voice came from the floor. It vibrated in Julian’s teeth. "We have gathered for the occasion."

"What occasion?" Julian asked.

His voice was small. It cracked. The silhouettes turned their heads. The movement was jerky. Mechanical.

The host tilted its head. The porcelain cracked. A single fissure ran from the forehead to the chin.

"You know," the host said. "You always know."

Julian looked at his father’s chair. The chair was occupied by a presence. The presence was heavy. It pressed down on the cushion. It smelled of old paper and ink.

Father.

Father was a secret. Father was a lie. Father was the thing that kept the walls standing.

Julian reached for the lilies. The stems were brittle. They crumbled under his fingers. Dust rose. The dust was gold. It settled in his hair. It settled in his eyes.

"Give it back," Julian whispered.

The host leaned in. The porcelain face was inches from Julian’s face. Julian could smell the dust. He could smell the emptiness behind the mask.

"Give what?" the host asked.

"The key," Julian said.

The host laughed. The laugh was the sound of glass shattering. The silhouettes did not react. They remained still.

"There is no key," the host said. "There is only the door."

Julian looked at the door. The door was at the end of the hall. It was white. It was closed. It was locked.

He had the key.

He had always had the key.

It was in his pocket. It was cold. It was made of bone. It fit perfectly against his thigh. He could feel its weight. It was the weight of his life. It was the weight of his name.

He pulled the key from his pocket.

The metal was warm. It was alive. It pulsed.

The host watched. The host’s eyes, if it had eyes, were fixed on the key.

"Put it back," the host said.

Julian shook his head.

"No."

The word was small. It was firm.

The room changed. The light dimmed. The lilies on the table withered. They collapsed into black powder. The powder spilled over the tablecloth. It ran like ink.

The silhouettes stood up. They moved toward Julian. Their movements were fluid. They were not solid. They were shadows. They were the shadows of the people who had left.

"Julian," one of them said. The voice was his mother’s. "Julian, please."

He did not look at them. He looked at the door.

The door was close now. It had always been close. He had just been too far away.

He walked to the door.

The host blocked his path. The host was huge. The host was the room. The host was the walls.

"You cannot leave," the host said. "You are part of the structure."

"I am not," Julian said.

He raised the key.

The key glowed. The light was white. It was blinding. It was pure.

The host stepped back. The host retreated. The host dissolved. The porcelain mask fell to the floor. It shattered into a thousand pieces. Underneath the mask, there was nothing. Only air. Only space.

The door opened.

Julian stepped through.

The air outside was cold. It was sharp. It cut his skin.

He stood on a hill. The hill was green. The grass was soft. The sky was blue. It was a perfect blue. It was a deep blue. It was a blue that had no name.

He looked back.

The banquet hall was gone. The hill was empty. There was no house. There was no door. There was only the grass.

He was alone.

The key was still in his hand.

He looked at it. It was no longer cold. It was no longer warm. It was just metal. It was just a piece of bone.

He threw it into the grass.

It landed with a soft thud.

He walked away.

He walked for miles. The sun set. The stars came out. The stars were bright. They were cold. They were indifferent.

He walked until his feet bled. He walked until his lungs burned. He walked until he forgot why he had left.

He forgot the name Edward. He forgot the face of the host. He forgot the lilies. He forgot the silence.

He only remembered the door.

He only remembered the key.

He only remembered the feeling of the weight in his pocket.

He stopped.

He sat down on the grass.

The grass was wet with dew.

He closed his eyes.

He opened them.

He was back in the room.

The banquet hall was there. The lilies were there. The silhouettes were there. The host was there.

Julian sat at the head of the table.

He was seven.

He held a glass of water.

The water was clear.

It was still.

It did not ripple.

The host smiled. The porcelain mask was whole.

"Welcome," the host said.

Julian looked at his father’s chair. The chair was empty.

He reached for the lilies.

The stems were brittle.

They crumbled under his fingers.

Dust rose.

The dust was gold.

"Give it back," Julian whispered.

The host leaned in.

"Give what?" the host asked.

Julian looked at his pocket.

His pocket was empty.

He did not have the key.

He had never had the key.

The host laughed. The laugh was the sound of glass shattering.

"You are part of the structure," the host said.

Julian looked at the silhouettes.

They were smiling.

They were waiting.

He picked up the glass of water.

He drank.

The water was warm.

It tasted of iron.

It tasted of freedom.

It tasted of nothing.

He set the glass down.

The table was quiet.

The air was still.

The lilies were dead.

Julian waited.

He waited for the next Tuesday.

He waited for the next Thursday.

He waited for the calendar to turn.

It did not.

He was happy.

He was free.

He was trapped.

The distinction was lost.

The distinction was gone.

He was the door.

He was the key.

He was the lock.

The host moved the chair.

The chair creaked.

The creak was the sound of a bone breaking.

The creak was the sound of a heart stopping.

The creak was the sound of a life ending.

Julian did not flinch.

He did not blink.

He sat.

He stayed.

He remained.

The banquet continued.

The feast was endless.

The hunger was infinite.

Julian ate.

He ate the silence.

He ate the dust.

He ate the dark.

He ate the light.

He ate the void.

He ate the self.

He ate the other.

He ate the world.

He ate the truth.

The truth was bitter.

The truth was sweet.

The truth was real.

The truth was a lie.

Julian smiled.

The smile was wide.

The smile was sharp.

The smile was empty.

The host smiled back.

The porcelain mask cracked.

The crack was small.

The crack was deep.

The crack was eternal.

The room shook.

The walls trembled.

The floor groaned.

The lilies exploded.

The dust rose.

The dust fell.

The dust settled.

Julian opened his eyes.

He was awake.

He was in a bed.

The bed was white.

The sheets were cold.

The air was thin.

He was in a hospital.

The walls were beige.

The lights were fluorescent.

The hum was constant.

He looked at his hand.

His hand was old.

His hand was wrinkled.

His hand was weak.

He looked at the clock.

The clock was running.

The numbers were moving.

It was Tuesday.

It was morning.

The sun was rising.

The light was yellow.

The light was soft.

The light was real.

He breathed in.

The air was clean.

The air was fresh.

The air was free.

He breathed out.

The breath was long.

The breath was slow.

The breath was heavy.

He was alive.

He was free.

He was alone.

The nurse entered.

The nurse was young.

The nurse was kind.

The nurse was real.

"Good morning," the nurse said.

Julian looked at the nurse.

He did not speak.

He could not speak.

His throat was dry.

His mouth was dust.

He reached for the water glass on the nightstand.

The glass was full.

The water was clear.

It was still.

It did not ripple.

He lifted the glass.

His hand shook.

The water sloshed.

The water spilled.

The water ran down the nightstand.

The water ran to the floor.

The water soaked into the carpet.

The carpet was blue.

The carpet was soft.

The carpet was warm.

He drank.

The water was cold.

The water was clean.

The water was real.

He drank until the glass was empty.

He drank until his stomach was full.

He drank until he was full.

He set the glass down.

The glass was empty.

The glass was clear.

The glass was still.

He looked at the nurse.

The nurse looked at him.

The nurse smiled.

The smile was real.

The smile was kind.

The smile was free.

Julian smiled back.

The smile was small.

The smile was weak.

The smile was real.

He was free.

The price was high.

The price was paid.

The debt was settled.

The account was closed.

The story was over.

The end was here.

The beginning was there.

The middle was gone.

The silence returned.

The silence was loud.

The silence was deep.

The silence was full.

Julian closed his eyes.

He slept.

He dreamed.

He dreamed of the hall.

He dreamed of the host.

He dreamed of the key.

He dreamed of the door.

He dreamed of the freedom.

He dreamed of the cage.

He dreamed of the bird.

He dreamed of the sky.

He dreamed of the fall.

He dreamed of the ground.

He dreamed of the dust.

He dreamed of the gold.

He dreamed of the light.

He dreamed of the dark.

He dreamed of the self.

He dreamed of the other.

He dreamed of the truth.

He dreamed of the lie.

He dreamed of the life.

He dreamed of the death.

He dreamed of the nothing.

He dreamed of the everything.

He woke up.

He was awake.

He was here.

He was now.

He was real.

He was free.

He was alone.

The sun was high.

The light was bright.

The air was still.

The world was quiet.

The world was waiting.

Julian waited.

He did not move.

He did not speak.

He did not breathe.

He was still.

He was present.

He was whole.

He was broken.

He was free.

The end.