The sky broke open.

Not with rain. With light.

Miles stood in the garden. His hands shook. He held a bowl. It was clay. Red. Cracked.

Inside, a single loaf.

Bread.

It smelled of ash and honey.

He looked up. The sun was wrong. It had two halos. One gold. One black.

"Look," said Elara.

She stood by the gate. Her face was pale. Her eyes were wide.

She did not run.

She waited.

Miles turned. He looked at her. He looked at the bread.

"I thought you were dead," he said.

Her voice was thin. Like dry leaves.

"I am," she whispered.

He stepped closer. The grass was soft. It soaked his boots.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Your wife," she said.

The word hit him.

Hard.

He dropped the bowl.

It shattered.

The bread rolled out. It touched the dirt. It began to darken.

"Elara?" he said.

"I am not Elara," she said.

The wind stopped.

The birds stopped.

The world held its breath.

Miles felt a coldness in his chest. It spread to his fingers. To his toes.

"You look like her," he said.

"I am the echo," she said.

He looked at the black halo. It pulsed.

Once.

Twice.

"What is this place?" he asked.

"The kitchen," she said.

Miles looked around.

The garden was gone.

He stood in a room.

The walls were made of stone. The floor was cold. A table sat in the center. On it, a knife. A pot. A fire.

The fire burned blue.

It did not make heat.

It made silence.

"Where is the house?" he asked.

"Gone," she said.

"Where is the village?"

"Gone."

"Where am I?"

"Inside the hunger," she said.

Miles looked at his hands. They were trembling. He looked at the bread on the floor. It was now black. Rotting.

"I don't understand," he said.

"You don't need to," she said.

She walked to the table. She picked up the knife.

It was short. Stained.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Freedom," she said.

Miles took a step back.

"No," he said.

She smiled.

It was sad.

It was kind.

"You want to know the truth," she said.

"Yes."

"The truth is a meal," she said.

She held out the knife.

The handle was worn. Smooth.

Miles looked at it.

He thought of his wife.

The real Elara.

She had loved him.

She had made him soup.

She had sung while she cooked.

Her voice was low. Warm.

She had died in the winter.

The fever took her.

He had wept.

He had screamed.

He had begged the sky.

The sky had not answered.

Now, the sky was a blue fire.

"Take it," she said.

"Take what?"

"The choice."

Miles looked at the knife.

He looked at her.

Her eyes were not like Elara’s.

Elara’s eyes were brown.

These eyes were empty.

Like wells.

Deep.

Dark.

"I don't want it," he said.

"You do," she said.

"Why?"

"Because you are alone," she said.

"And I am here."

Miles looked at the door.

There was no door.

There was only stone.

He looked at the bread.

The rot spread.

It ate the floor.

It ate the table legs.

The room shrank.

The walls moved in.

"Run," she said.

"I cannot run," he said.

"There is nowhere to go."

The blue fire roared.

It sounded like a scream.

Miles picked up the knife.

His hand was steady now.

The fear was gone.

Replaced by something else.

Something heavy.

"What will it do?" he asked.

"It will cut the thread," she said.

"The thread?"

"The one that binds you to the past," she said.

Miles looked at the blade.

It reflected his face.

His face was old.

His hair was white.

He had not been old before.

He had been forty.

Now, he was eighty.

Time had passed.

Time had eaten him.

"I see," he said.

He raised the knife.

He did not cut himself.

He cut the air.

The air tore.

A sound like ripping silk.

The blue fire went out.

Darkness.

Total.

Miles fell.

He landed on soft ground.

Grass.

Real grass.

Green.

Wet.

He opened his eyes.

The sky was blue.

One sun.

Normal.

He lay on his back.

The air smelled of rain.

He sat up.

He was in the garden.

The house was there.

The walls were white.

The windows were closed.

He looked at his hands.

They were young.

Forty.

He looked for the knife.

It was not there.

He looked for the bread.

It was not there.

He looked for the woman.

She was not there.

He stood up.

His legs were weak.

He walked to the door.

He opened it.

He went inside.

The kitchen was warm.

The stove was cold.

The table was set.

Two plates.

Two cups.

He looked at the second plate.

It was empty.

The fork was untouched.

He sat down.

He picked up the cup.

It was cold.

He drank.

Water.

Plain.

He set the cup down.

He looked at the door.

It was closed.

He walked to the hallway.

He walked to the bedroom.

The bed was made.

The sheets were white.

He walked to the closet.

He opened it.

Her coat was there.

Blue wool.

He touched it.

It was soft.

He closed the door.

He walked to the window.

He looked out.

The village was quiet.

Smoke rose from the chimneys.

People walked in the street.

They did not look up.

They did not see the halo.

They did not see the black sun.

They were alive.

They were ordinary.

Miles put his hand on the glass.

It was cold.

He thought of the blue fire.

He thought of the knife.

He thought of the word.

Freedom.

He had cut the thread.

He had cut the past.

He was free.

But he was alone.

The silence in the room was loud.

It pressed against his ears.

It pressed against his chest.

He felt a pain.

Sharp.

Deep.

It was not in his heart.

It was in his bones.

He realized then.

The price.

Freedom was not a gift.

It was a loss.

To be free was to be without anchor.

To be free was to be without her.

He had chosen it.

He had cut it.

He had chosen the living world.

He had chosen the silence.

He had chosen the empty plate.

He stood by the window.

The sun began to set.

The light turned gold.

Then red.

Then black.

Miles watched the darkness come.

He did not turn on the lamp.

He did not move.

He stood in the dark.

He was still.

He was free.

He was alone.

The night came.

It was deep.

It was endless.

He breathed.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

He waited for the morning.

He did not know if it would come.

He did not care.

He was here.

He was now.

The past was gone.

The future was unknown.

Only the present remained.

Cold.

Quiet.

His.

He closed his eyes.

He saw the blue fire.

He saw the woman.

She smiled.

She said nothing.

She was gone.

He opened his eyes.

The room was dark.

He was alone.

The silence was total.

It was complete.

It was his.

He sat on the edge of the bed.

He put his hands in his lap.

He looked at the door.

He did not open it.

He did not call out.

He was still.

The night passed.

The stars appeared.

They were bright.

They were cold.

Miles watched them.

He did not blink.

He did not move.

He was a statue.

He was a shadow.

He was free.

The dawn came.

Gray.

Pale.

Miles stood up.

His legs were stiff.

He walked to the kitchen.

He looked at the table.

The plates were still there.

The cups were still there.

He picked up the fork.

It was cold.

He put it down.

He opened the cupboard.

He took out a loaf of bread.

It was fresh.

White.

Soft.

He tore a piece.

He put it in his mouth.

He chewed.

It tasted of nothing.

It tasted of air.

It tasted of time.

He swallowed.

He looked at the window.

The sun was rising.

It was normal.

It was bright.

Miles walked to the door.

He opened it.

He stepped outside.

The air was cold.

He took a breath.

It filled his lungs.

He walked down the path.

He did not look back.

He did not look up.

He walked into the village.

He walked into the crowd.

He was there.

He was present.

He was free.

He was alone.

The day began.

It was quiet.

It was endless.

He walked.

And walked.

And walked.

Into the light.