The cold does not kill you. It only waits. You know this because you have walked through three winters in the highlands, and your hands have not yet turned to stone. But the cold is a patient thing. It sits on your shoulders. It eats the warmth from your bones. And you are still here.

You are holding the mirror.

It is not a large thing. Just a shard of silver glass, no bigger than your palm. It has no frame. No handle. Just the edge, sharp enough to cut a thumb. You keep it in a cloth pouch against your chest. It is the only thing you have left of the village. The rest is ash. The rest is memory.

You walk. The path is narrow. It winds up the mountain side. The air is thin. It tastes of iron. Your lungs burn. You do not stop. You cannot stop.

Who are you? You ask yourself. You have forgotten your name. It does not matter. Names are for people who have a home to return to. You have no home. You have only the glass.

You remember the fire. You remember the smoke choking the sky. You remember the sound of your sister screaming. Not a word. Just a sound. A raw, animal tear in the air. You ran. You ran with the glass in your hand. You did not look back. If you had looked back, you would not be here.

Why did you take it?

You do not know. Or you do not want to know.

The sun sets. The light turns the snow into blood. You see a figure in the distance. A man. He is sitting by a dead tree. He is wrapped in a coat. He is old. His face is a map of wrinkles. He does not move when you approach.

You stop. You look at him. He looks at you.

"Who are you?" he asks.

His voice is dry. Like leaves rubbing together.

"I am no one," you say.

"Liar."

He laughs. It is a harsh sound.

"You are the one who holds the light," he says.

You touch the pouch. The glass is cold.

"I am a thief," you say.

"You are a survivor," he says. "And survivors are always thieves."

You sit down. The snow is deep. It soaks into your boots. You do not care. You are tired.

"Where are you going?" he asks.

"Nowhere," you say.

"Nothing is nowhere," he says. "Nowhere is a place you run from. You cannot run from yourself."

He looks at the pouch. His eyes are bright. Too bright.

"Let me see it."

You shake your head.

"Show me."

"It is mine."

"Everything is mine. The mountain. The snow. The air in your lungs. Show me the glass."

You hesitate. Your hand goes to the pouch. The fabric is soft. The glass is heavy.

"Look," you say.

You pull out the shard. The moonlight hits the surface. It flares. It is white. It is blinding.

The man’s eyes widen. He leans forward.

"Give it to me," he says.

"No."

"Give it to me. I can make it stop."

"Stop what?"

"Your pain. Your guilt. The weight."

He reaches out. His hand is trembling. His fingers are long. They look like twigs.

You pull the glass back.

"I need it," you say.

"Need is a lie," he says. "You do not need it. You are afraid of what it shows you."

He stands up. He is taller than you. He looms over you.

"Give it to me."

You stand up too. You hold the glass up. The light dances. It is beautiful. It is terrible.

"I took it from the fire," you say. "My sister died. I did not save her. I ran. I kept this. I kept the reflection."

"The reflection is a trap," the man says.

"It is all I have."

"It is a curse," he says. "Knowledge is a curse. You know you are alive. You know she is dead. You know you are alone. The glass shows you the truth. And the truth is a knife."

He steps closer.

"Throw it away," he says. "Throw it into the snow. Let it break. Let it disappear. Then you can sleep. Then you can forget."

You look at the glass. You see your own face. It is pale. It is hollow. Your eyes are dark. You look like a ghost. You look like a monster.

You want to throw it. You want to be free. You want to forget.

But you do not move.

"Throw it," he screams. His voice cracks. "Throw it now!"

You look at him. You see his face. You see the hunger in his eyes. You see the desperation. He is not a stranger. He is you. He is the part of you that wants to die. He is the part of you that wants to forget.

"No," you say.

The man freezes.

"Why?" he asks. His voice is small.

"Because if I throw it away, I am dead," you say. "And I am not ready to die."

The man shakes his head. "You are already dead. You are a ghost."

"I am alive," you say. "I am breathing. I am here. The pain is real. And because it is real, I am real."

The man falls to his knees. He buries his face in his hands. He is weeping.

"I have walked for so long," he sobs. "I have walked for so long. I just want to stop."

You kneel down. You touch his shoulder. His coat is wet. He is shaking.

"You cannot stop," you say. "But you can rest."

He looks up. His eyes are red.

"Who are you?" he asks again.

"I am the one who holds the light," you say.

He nods. He stands up. He looks at the glass. He looks at you.

"Keep it," he says. "Keep it until you are ready to break."

He turns and walks away. He does not look back. He disappears into the dark.

You are alone again.

You look at the glass. You see your face. You see the tears on your cheeks. You wipe them away. The cold is still there. The pain is still there. But the silence is different. It is not empty. It is full.

You put the glass back in the pouch. You tighten the cloth. You feel the weight against your heart.

You stand up. You brush the snow from your knees. You look up at the sky. The stars are out. They are cold. They are distant. They are watching.

You begin to walk.

You walk faster. The wind picks up. It howls. It screams. It tries to push you back. You do not let it. You dig your feet into the snow. You push forward.

You are not running anymore. You are walking.

You remember your sister’s face. She was smiling. She was holding a piece of bread. She was happy. She was alive.

You remember the fire. You remember the heat. You remember the smoke.

You remember your name.

It comes back to you. Like a bird returning to a nest. It is quiet. It is soft. But it is there.

You are not no one. You are not a ghost. You are a man. You are a brother. You are a survivor.

The glass is heavy. It burns against your chest. It is a curse. It is a truth.

You carry it.

You walk into the night. The snow falls on you. It covers your shoulders. It covers your hair. It covers the world.

But you keep walking.

The cold does not kill you. It only waits. And you are stronger than the cold. You are stronger than the fear. You are stronger than the memory.

You hold the light. You hold the pain. You hold the life.

And you do not let go.

The night is long. But you are not alone. You are with yourself. And that is enough.

You walk. You breathe. You live.

The glass reflects the moon. It is a small, bright star. It is the only thing that is true.

You keep walking.