The cup was cracked.

It sat on the table. A fine hairline fracture ran from rim to base. A white vein in the blue porcelain.

Margaret held it. Her fingers were cold. The house was warm. Or it should have been. The fire had died.

"Did you see it?" she asked.

Thomas looked up. He was eating soup. The spoon clinked against the bowl.

"See what?"

"The crack."

He wiped his mouth. "I see the cup."

"It is broken."

"It is fine."

Margaret shook her head. She placed the cup on the table. It made a small, sharp sound. *Tink.*

The house groaned. The beams shifted. Dust fell from the ceiling. A fine gray powder landed on the blue porcelain.

"Who is that?" Thomas whispered.

"Who is who?"

"Upstairs. In the hall."

Margaret looked at the door. The wood was dark. Old oak. It had been in the family for three generations. Or maybe ten. Time was slippery here.

"I will go," she said.

"Margaret."

"I will go."

She stood. Her legs were stiff. She walked to the door. The handle was cold brass. She turned it.

The hallway was dark.

She stepped out.

The floorboards creaked. *Creak. Creak.*

She walked down the hall. The wallpaper was peeling. Strips of faded yellow hung like dead skin.

She reached the top of the stairs.

There was a shadow.

It moved.

Margaret stopped.

"Hello," she said.

The shadow did not move.

"Is someone there?"

A voice came from the dark. It was soft. It was familiar.

"Come closer."

Margaret took a step. The floorboard cracked.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"I am the gardener," the voice said.

Margaret frowned. "The gardener?"

"Yes."

"We have no gardener."

"We had one. Long ago."

"Where is he?"

"He is here."

The shadow shifted. It took shape. It was a man. He was tall. He wore a coat of gray wool. His face was pale. His eyes were black.

"Thomas?" Margaret asked.

The man smiled. It was a strange smile. Too wide.

"Thomas is down there," the man said. "Eating soup."

"Then who are you?"

"I am what was left."

Margaret felt a chill. It was not from the cold.

"I need to leave," she said.

"You cannot."

"Why?"

"The door is locked."

Margaret looked at the stairs. The way down was dark.

"I will go back," she said.

"Go back to what?"

"To my life."

"You have no life."

Margaret’s heart beat fast. *Thump. Thump.*

"This is a dream," she said.

"Is it?"

The man stepped forward. He held something in his hand. It was a trowel. It was rusty.

"I planted a garden," he said.

"Where?"

"Here."

The man pointed to the floor. The wood was rotting. Green mold spread in circles.

"You see?" he said.

Margaret looked down. The mold was pulsing. It was alive.

"We are trapped," she said.

"No," the man said. "You are free."

"Free to do what?"

"To die."

Margaret shook her head. "I do not believe you."

"Belief is a luxury," the man said. "We have no money for luxuries."

Margaret laughed. It was a dry, brittle sound.

"You sound like him," she said. "Like my father."

The man tilted his head. "Who is him?"

"My father. He said the same things. Before he left."

"Before he died?"

Margaret stopped.

"Did he die?" she asked.

"Ask Thomas."

Margaret turned. She ran down the stairs.

The house was empty.

The table was bare. The soup bowl was gone. The chair was pushed back.

Thomas was not there.

"Thomas?" she called.

No answer.

She ran to the kitchen. The sink was full of dirty dishes. A plate was broken. Shards of blue porcelain.

She picked up a shard. It cut her finger. A drop of blood fell. *Plip.*

It hit the floor. The floor drank it.

"Thomas!" she screamed.

The door at the end of the hall opened.

A woman stood there. She was old. Her hair was white. Her face was lined.

She held a cup. It was blue. It was cracked.

"Margaret," the woman said.

Margaret froze. "Aunt Clara?"

Clara smiled. It was the same smile as the man upstairs. Too wide.

"Come," Clara said. "We have work to do."

"Where is Thomas?"

Clara shook her head. "Thomas is gone."

"Gone where?"

"Into the garden."

Margaret looked at the door. It led to the backyard. The garden.

"I must go," she said.

"Wait," Clara said. She held out the cup. "Take this."

"Why?"

"Because you broke it."

Margaret looked at the cup. The crack was wider now.

"I did not break it," she said.

"You did. Years ago. You dropped it. You cried. You hid the pieces. But the pieces remained."

Margaret took the cup. It was warm.

"Come," Clara said.

They walked to the door.

The air outside was thick. It smelled of wet earth. Of rot. Of flowers.

They stepped out.

The garden was vast. It stretched to the horizon. The sky was black. There were no stars.

The plants were tall. They twisted in the wind. They had leaves like hands.

"Look," Clara said.

Margaret looked.

In the center of the garden was a path. It was made of white stones.

At the end of the path was a house. It was small. It looked like their house. But smaller.

"Go," Clara said.

Margaret walked. Her feet sank into the mud. It was cold. It was sticky.

She walked for hours. Or maybe minutes. Time was slippery here.

She reached the house.

The door was open.

She stepped inside.

The room was dark. There was a table. On the table was a cup. It was blue. It was cracked.

She sat down.

She picked up the cup.

A voice spoke. It came from the walls.

"Did you see it?"

Margaret looked up. The walls were moving. They were breathing.

"See what?" she asked.

"The crack."

"It is broken."

"It is fine."

Margaret laughed.

She threw the cup on the floor.

It shattered.

*Crash.*

Shards flew everywhere.

She stood. She felt light. She felt free.

The walls stopped moving.

The dark lifted.

She was in her kitchen.

The fire was out.

The table was bare.

Thomas was there. He was asleep in the chair. His face was peaceful.

Margaret looked at the floor.

There were shards of blue porcelain. They glittered in the moonlight.

She picked up a piece. It cut her hand.

She bled.

Thomas woke up. He saw the blood.

"Margaret?" he said.

"I am fine," she said.

"You are bleeding."

"It is nothing."

She looked at the shards. She looked at Thomas. She looked at the empty space where the cup had been.

She felt a weight in her chest. It was heavy. It was old.

She dropped the shard.

*Clack.*

Thomas picked it up. He looked at it. He looked at her.

"What happened?" he asked.

"I broke the cup," she said.

"It was old," he said. "I was going to throw it away."

Margaret smiled. It was a small smile.

"Yes," she said. "You were."

She walked to the window. The garden was dark. The moon was full.

She opened the window. The cold air rushed in.

She looked at the garden.

She saw a figure. It was standing in the grass. It was wearing a gray coat.

It waved.

Margaret waved back.

Then the figure was gone.

She closed the window.

She went to the bedroom.

Thomas was already asleep.

She lay down beside him.

She closed her eyes.

She dreamed of the garden.

The plants were growing. They were reaching for her.

She woke up.

The cup was on the table.

It was whole.

It was blue.

It was uncracked.

She stared at it.

Her heart beat fast.

*Thump. Thump.*

She reached for it.

Her hand stopped.

She did not touch it.

She lay back down.

She did not sleep.

She waited.

The house was silent.

The fire was dead.

The cup sat on the table.

It waited for her.

And she waited for it.

And the night went on.