I woke to the smell of wet iron. It hung heavy in the air, thick as wool, clinging to the back of my throat. The room was dark. A single pane of glass, cracked down the middle, let in a sliver of moonlight. It cut a pale line across the floorboards. I did not move. I knew better. Movement brought attention. Attention brought pain. I was not a man, though I wore the shape of one. I was something older. Something that leaked.

The floorboards groaned under the weight of the night. Outside, the wind scoured the siding of the farmhouse. It was a harsh, industrial sound. A low hum, like a machine that had not yet found its rhythm. I could feel the vibration in my teeth. It traveled down my jaw and into the hollows of my chest. I was tired. A bone-deep weariness that sleep could not touch. I had been walking for years. Perhaps decades. The road was long. The miles were heavy. And I was not finished. I was never finished.

I sat up. The motion was stiff. My joints popped. They sounded like dry twigs breaking. I looked at my hands. They were pale. The skin was thin, translucent. I could see the blue veins beneath. They pulsed with a slow, sluggish rhythm. I flexed my fingers. They moved, but with a lag. A delay. Like a reflection in a stagnant pond. I stood. My legs trembled. They were not strong. They were not meant to carry a body that did not fully belong to the world.

I walked to the door. The wood was cold against my palm. It had been painted a deep red, but the paint was peeling. It curled away in long, jagged strips. Beneath it, the wood was gray and dead. I had seen this door before. I knew the way the grain splintered. I knew the way the lock stuck. I pulled it open. The hinges screamed. A thin, high sound that sliced through the quiet.

The yard was empty. The grass was tall and yellow. It swayed in the wind. There was no one there. Just the dark. Just the cold. I stepped out onto the porch. The wood creaked under my feet. It was a familiar song. I had heard it a thousand times. I knew every crack. Every nail. Every splinter. It was my home, and it was my cage.

I began to walk. The road stretched out before me. It was a ribbon of dirt and stone. It cut through the fields. The fields were brown and barren. The harvest was long over. The silos stood like empty tombs. They loomed against the sky. Black shapes in the moonlight. I walked past them. My boots made no sound. They were too light. They were not made for the ground.

The town was ahead. I could see the lights. They were dim. Orange and yellow. They flickered. They were alive, but barely. I felt a pull. A tug at the center of my chest. It was not pain. It was not joy. It was a hunger. A need to be seen. To be known. I walked faster. My legs burned. The fire was cold. It did not warm me. It only showed me how far I had to go.

I reached the edge of the town. The streetlamps were broken. Most of them. Only a few worked. They cast long, distorted shadows. I saw a figure. He was standing in the street. He was tall. He wore a coat. The coat was black. It hung loose on his frame. He was looking at me. I knew him. I had seen him before. In the mirrors. In the windows. In the eyes of the strangers I passed on the road.

He did not move. He just stood there. He watched me. His face was blank. It had no expression. No fear. No anger. Just a stillness. A void. I stopped. My breath caught in my throat. I could not move. I was frozen. The wind stopped. The silence was absolute. I looked at him. I looked into his eyes. They were my eyes.

I turned away. I did not want to see. I did not want to know. I walked on. My feet moved of their own accord. They carried me down the street. The houses were dark. The windows were blind. I passed a church. The steeple pointed at the sky. It was a finger accusing. I passed a school. The doors were locked. The desks were empty. I passed a shop. The sign was faded. The name was illegible. I passed a graveyard. The headstones were tilted. The grass grew over them. I passed it all. I was a ghost in the machine. A glitch in the code.

I reached the river. It was wide. The water was black. It moved slowly. It carried the debris of the day. Leaves. Twigs. Pieces of wood. I stood on the bank. The mud was soft. It sucked at my boots. I looked at the water. It reflected the moon. It reflected the sky. It reflected me.

I saw my face. It was not my face. It was a stranger's face. It was old. It was young. It was mine. It was not mine. I leaned over. The water lapped at my feet. It was cold. It bit into my skin. I did not flinch. I did not care. I looked deeper. The reflection looked back. It smiled. I did not smile. It winked. I did not wink. It was mocking me. It was daring me.

I threw a stone. It hit the water. It made a splash. The ripples spread out. They distorted the image. They broke it apart. The face disappeared. It was gone. I felt a relief. A sudden, sharp clarity. I had defeated it. I had broken the mirror. I was free. I turned to leave. My feet were heavy. The mud held me. I pulled at my legs. They did not move. I was stuck. I was sinking.

The water rose. It touched my knees. It touched my waist. It was cold. It was indifferent. I did not struggle. I did not fight. I let it take me. I let it go. I closed my eyes. The darkness was welcome. It was soft. It was quiet. I felt the weight of the years lift. I felt the pain fade. I felt the hunger stop.

I opened my eyes. I was on the bank. The water was gone. The moon was still in the sky. The river was still. I was dry. I was whole. I looked at my hands. They were pale. The veins pulsed. I looked at the figure in the street. He was gone. The street was empty. The lights were dim. The wind blew. I walked back to the farmhouse. The door was open. The hinges did not scream. The room was dark. The crack in the glass was gone. The pane was whole. I sat on the bed. The wood creaked. I closed my eyes. I waited.

I woke to the smell of wet iron. It hung heavy in the air. The room was dark. A single pane of glass, cracked down the middle, let in a sliver of moonlight. It cut a pale line across the floorboards. I did not move. I knew better. Movement brought attention. Attention brought pain. I was not a man, though I wore the shape of one. I was something older. Something that leaked.

The floorboards groaned under the weight of the night. Outside, the wind scoured the siding of the farmhouse. It was a harsh, industrial sound. A low hum, like a machine that had not yet found its rhythm. I could feel the vibration in my teeth. It traveled down my jaw and into the hollows of my chest. I was tired. A bone-deep weariness that sleep could not touch. I had been walking for years. Perhaps decades. The road was long. The miles were heavy. And I was not finished. I was never finished.

I sat up. The motion was stiff. My joints popped. They sounded like dry twigs breaking. I looked at my hands. They were pale. The skin was thin, translucent. I could see the blue veins beneath. They pulsed with a slow, sluggish rhythm. I flexed my fingers. They moved, but with a lag. A delay. Like a reflection in a stagnant pond. I stood. My legs trembled. They were not strong. They were not meant to carry a body that did not fully belong to the world.

I walked to the door. The wood was cold against my palm. It had been painted a deep red, but the paint was peeling. It curled away in long, jagged strips. Beneath it, the wood was gray and dead. I had seen this door before. I knew the way the grain splintered. I knew the way the lock stuck. I pulled it open. The hinges screamed. A thin, high sound that sliced through the quiet.

The yard was empty. The grass was tall and yellow. It swayed in the wind. There was no one there. Just the dark. Just the cold. I stepped out onto the porch. The wood creaked under my feet. It was a familiar song. I had heard it a thousand times. I knew every crack. Every nail. Every splinter. It was my home, and it was my cage.

I began to walk. The road stretched out before me. It was a ribbon of dirt and stone. It cut through the fields. The fields were brown and barren. The harvest was long over. The silos stood like empty tombs. They loomed against the sky. Black shapes in the moonlight. I walked past them. My boots made no sound. They were too light. They were not made for the ground.

The town was ahead. I could see the lights. They were dim. Orange and yellow. They flickered. They were alive, but barely. I felt a pull. A tug at the center of my chest. It was not pain. It was not joy. It was a hunger. A need to be seen. To be known. I walked faster. My legs burned. The fire was cold. It did not warm me. It only showed me how far I had to go.

I reached the edge of the town. The streetlamps were broken. Most of them. Only a few worked. They cast long, distorted shadows. I saw a figure. He was standing in the street. He was tall. He wore a coat. The coat was black. It hung loose on his frame. He was looking at me. I knew him. I had seen him before. In the mirrors. In the windows. In the eyes of the strangers I passed on the road.

He did not move. He just stood there. He watched me. His face was blank. It had no expression. No fear. No anger. Just a stillness. A void. I stopped. My breath caught in my throat. I could not move. I was frozen. The wind stopped. The silence was absolute. I looked at him. I looked into his eyes. They were my eyes.

I turned away. I did not want to see. I did not want to know. I walked on. My feet moved of their own accord. They carried me down the street. The houses were dark. The windows were blind. I passed a church. The steeple pointed at the sky. It was a finger accusing. I passed a school. The doors were locked. The desks were empty. I passed a shop. The sign was faded. The name was illegible. I passed a graveyard. The headstones were tilted. The grass grew over them. I passed it all. I was a ghost in the machine. A glitch in the code.

I reached the river. It was wide. The water was black. It moved slowly. It carried the debris of the day. Leaves. Twigs. Pieces of wood. I stood on the bank. The mud was soft. It sucked at my boots. I looked at the water. It reflected the moon. It reflected the sky. It reflected me.

I saw my face. It was not my face. It was a stranger's face. It was old. It was young. It was mine. It was not mine. I leaned over. The water lapped at my feet. It was cold. It bit into my skin. I did not flinch. I did not care. I looked deeper. The reflection looked back. It smiled. I did not smile. It winked. I did not wink. It was mocking me. It was daring me.

I threw a stone. It hit the water. It made a splash. The ripples spread out. They distorted the image. They broke it apart. The face disappeared. It was gone. I felt a relief. A sudden, sharp clarity. I had defeated it. I had broken the mirror. I was free. I turned to leave. My feet were heavy. The mud held me. I pulled at my legs. They did not move. I was stuck. I was sinking.

The water rose. It touched my knees. It touched my waist. It was cold. It was indifferent. I did not struggle. I did not fight. I let it take me. I let it go. I closed my eyes. The darkness was welcome. It was soft. It was quiet. I felt the weight of the years lift. I felt the pain fade. I felt the hunger stop.

I opened my eyes. I was on the bank. The water was gone. The moon was still in the sky. The river was still. I was dry. I was whole. I looked at my hands. They were pale. The veins pulsed. I looked at the figure in the street. He was gone. The street was empty. The lights were dim. The wind blew. I walked back to the farmhouse. The door was open. The hinges did not scream. The room was dark. The crack in the glass was gone. The pane was whole. I sat on the bed. The wood creaked. I closed my eyes. I waited.