The clock in the steeple of St. Jude’s did not tick, it wheezed, a dry, rattling sound like a lung filled with broken glass, and it was this sound, more than the smell of damp wool or the taste of stale bread, that kept Thomas awake in his small room above the bakery, where the floorboards creaked under the weight of his own restless, turning body. He was twelve, or perhaps thirteen, though the years had begun to blur into a single, grey smear of time, and he knew, with a certainty that felt like a stone in his stomach, that the object was waiting for him, not in the church, where the priest kept the holy water and the incense, but in the cellar beneath the bakery, where the air was thick with the scent of rising yeast and the slow, sweet rot of old apples. His father, a man whose hands were perpetually stained with flour and whose eyes held the dull, heavy look of a man who had already accepted his own defeat, had told him, in that low, gravelly voice that seemed to scrape against the walls, "It is not yours to take, boy, it is yours to leave," but Thomas had heard the fear in the words, the tremor of a man who knew that the cycle was turning, that the debt was due, and that the only way to stop the bleeding was to give the blood, which was why he had not gone to sleep, but had sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the wheeze of the clock, counting the seconds that were not seconds, but breaths, and each breath felt like a theft, a small, quiet robbery of the time that was left to him, the time that was left to all of them, because in this town, where the fog rolled in from the river every morning and settled on the cobblestones like a shroud, time was not a river, but a wheel, and they were all just spokes, turning and turning, until the axle broke, and then, perhaps, there would be silence, but not before the object was found, not before the object was understood, not before the object was let go, which was why he was up, why he was dressed, why he was standing in the doorway of his room, looking down at the dark street, where the shadows stretched and twisted, and he knew, with a clarity that was almost painful, that he was not afraid of the dark, he was afraid of the light, he was afraid of the morning, he was afraid of the truth, which was sitting in the cellar, waiting for him, breathing its slow, sweet breath, and he had to go, he had to go, he had to go, because if he did not go, if he stayed here, if he slept, then the cycle would break, and the break would be ugly, and the ugliness would be his, it would be his alone, and he could not bear that, he could not bear the weight of it, so he went, he went down the stairs, his feet bare on the cold wood, and he went out into the night, and the night was thick, and the night was heavy, and the night was full of eyes, and he walked, and he walked, and he walked, until he reached the bakery, and the door was open, and the light from inside spilled out onto the cobbles, a pale, yellow light that looked like the light of a dying star, and he went in, and he went down, and he went down, and the stairs were narrow, and the air was cold, and the smell of yeast was strong, and he saw it, he saw the object, it was sitting on a table in the center of the cellar, a small, white box, made of bone, or perhaps of porcelain, it was hard to tell, in the dim light, and it was beautiful, and it was terrible, and he reached for it, and his hand trembled, and his heart beat, and he heard his father’s voice, behind him, not from the door, but from the wall, from the stone, from the air, "You think you can stop it, boy, you think you can stop the wheel, you think you can stop the time, but you cannot, you cannot, you cannot, and the box, it is not a gift, it is a mirror, it is a mirror, and it shows you what you are, and what you will be, and what you have always been, and you are a part of it, you are a part of it, and you cannot leave, you cannot leave, you cannot leave." Thomas did not turn around, he did not turn around, because he knew that if he turned around, he would see his father, and if he saw his father, he would see the love, and if he saw the love, he would see the pain, and if he saw the pain, he would break, and if he broke, the cycle would break, and if the cycle broke, the world would end, so he did not turn around, he looked at the box, and he opened it, and inside, there was nothing, there was nothing, there was only air, and the air was cold, and the air was sweet, and the air was full of the smell of his mother’s hair, and he closed the box, and he held it in his hands, and he felt the weight of it, and the weight of it was the weight of his life, and the weight of his father’s life, and the weight of his mother’s life, and the weight of all the lives that had come before, and all the lives that would come after, and he knew, then, that he could not keep it, he knew, then, that he had to give it back, he had to give it to the time, he had to give it to the wheel, he had to give it to the dark, so he walked up the stairs, and he walked out the door, and he walked to the church, and he walked to the steeple, and he climbed the stairs, one by one, and the clock was wheezing, and the clock was laughing, and the clock was crying, and he put the box on the ledge, the ledge that looked out over the town, over the fog, over the river, over the lights that were flickering in the windows, and he let go, he let go, and the box fell, and the box fell, and the box fell, into the fog, into the dark, into the time, and he watched it fall, and he watched it disappear, and he felt, for the first time, a lightness, a lightness that was not happiness, but was a kind of peace, a kind of surrender, a kind of letting go, and he stood there, on the ledge, in the wind, and he waited, and he waited, and he waited, until the light came, until the sun rose, and the fog burned away, and the town woke up, and the people went about their lives, and no one knew, no one knew, that the wheel had turned, and no one knew, that the debt had been paid, and no one knew, that Thomas was gone, that Thomas was free, that Thomas was finally, finally, at rest.