The garden was not a garden. It was a wound in the earth.

I saw it from the ridge. A patch of glass. Shattered emerald shards. They glittered in the pale winter sun. My boots crunched on the frost. The air tasted of iron and old blood. I am a man of the law. I carry a badge that is heavy. It pulls at my belt. It drags me down into the dirt.

My name is Elias. I do not remember my middle name. It is lost. Like the name of the woman I left. I walk. I always walk. My legs are wood. My spine is wire.

I reached the edge of the shatter. The wind died. Silence is a loud thing here. It roars in your ears. I crouched. I picked up a piece. It was a mirror. But it was broken. I held it to my face.

My eyes were red. My hair was grey. I looked like a ghost. A ghost who pays taxes. A ghost who eats bread. I put the shard down. It cut my finger. A drop of red. It hit the glass. The red spread. It looked like a flower. A violent, ugly flower.

I am not supposed to be here. The map says this is a road. The map lies. Maps are for men who believe in straight lines. I believe in circles. I believe in loops. I have walked this loop before. I know the smell of the mud. I know the shape of the stone to the left.

I climbed over the fence. The wire bit my arm. I did not flinch. Pain is a clock. It tells you you are alive. I walked into the shatter. The ground was jagged. My boots tore. The leather split open. I bled on the glass.

In the center stood a house. It was small. It was brown. It looked tired. It looked like me. A light burned in the window. A yellow, sickly light. I wiped my hand on my coat. I was an officer. I had a duty. I had a form to fill out. I had a life to investigate.

I knocked. The wood was soft. It felt like skin.

"Who is there?"

The voice was low. It was rough. It was a man’s voice. But it sounded like a woman. I know that voice. I have heard it in the dark. I have heard it when I sleep. I have heard it when I wake.

"Open up," I said. "Police."

The door creaked. It opened inward. I stepped in.

The room was cold. The air smelled of dust and lavender. There was a table. On the table was a cup. The tea was cold. I sat down. I did not ask permission. I was tired. I was always tired.

A man sat in the chair opposite me. He was old. His hands were wrapped in bandages. The bandages were stained. He looked at me. He did not blink.

"You are late," he said.

"I am on time," I said. "I am always on time."

He smiled. It was a sad smile. It was a smile that knew too much.

"You are not the first," he said. "You are not the last."

I took off my hat. I put it on the table. The badge glinted. I looked at my hands. They were shaking. I put them under the table. I hid them. I was a soldier. I did not shake. I was a lawman. I did not fear.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"I am the keeper," he said. "I keep the garden."

"I don't see a garden," I said. "I see glass."

"It is the same thing," he said. "It is broken. So it is glass."

I stared at him. I wanted to ask about the woman. I wanted to ask about the name. But the words stuck in my throat. They were stones. I swallowed them. They hurt.

"Take off your boots," he said.

I did not move.

"Take them off," he said. His voice was soft. It was a command. It was a plea.

I pulled off my left boot. The sock was wet with blood. I pulled off my right boot. My feet were raw. The skin was red. The nails were black.

He stood up. He moved slowly. He walked to me. He knelt down. He took my feet in his hands. His hands were warm. They were rough. He scrubbed my feet. He used a cloth. The cloth was red. It was soaked in something dark.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Good," he said. "It means you are here."

He wrapped my feet in fresh bandages. He tied them tight. I felt the pressure. I felt the heat. I felt something else. Something deep. Something in my chest. It was a knot. It was tightening.

"Who is she?" I asked.

He stopped. He looked up. His eyes were clear. They were like the glass outside.

"Who?" he asked.

"The woman," I said. "The one in the story."

He laughed. It was a dry sound. Like leaves skittering on stone.

"There is no woman," he said. "There is only the loop."

"I don't understand."

"You do," he said. "You have always understood. You just forgot. We all forget. That is the price."

I looked at the door. I wanted to leave. I wanted to run. But my feet were bound. I was tied to this man. I was tied to this room.

"Tell me," I said. "Tell me the end."

"There is no end," he said. "There is only the beginning. Again and again."

I closed my eyes. I saw the field. I saw the horse. I saw the girl. She was young. She had hair like wheat. She wore a blue dress. She ran to me. Her arms were open. Her mouth was open. She was singing. I heard the song. It was a song of rain. It was a song of stone.

I opened my eyes. The man was watching me.

"You saw it," he said.

"I saw nothing."

"You saw the truth," he said. "You are the one who left. You are the one who stayed. You are both."

I felt sick. I felt cold. The room spun. The walls moved. The glass outside shattered louder. I heard the sound of breaking. It was like bones snapping.

"Let me go," I said.

"You cannot go," he said. "You must stay. You must break."

I reached for my gun. It was not there. I reached for my badge. It was gone. I was empty. I was a hole in the world.

The man stood up. He walked to the window. He opened it. The wind rushed in. It howled. It screamed. It pulled at my hair. It pulled at my shirt.

"Look," he said.

I looked. The garden was gone. The glass was gone. There was only field. Green and endless. And in the field, a woman stood. She was small. She was far away. She was waving.

I wanted to call out. I wanted to run. But I could not move. My feet were tied to the chair. My hands were tied to the table. I was a statue. I was a monument to my own failure.

The woman turned away. She walked into the grass. The grass swallowed her. She was gone.

I screamed. I screamed until my voice broke. I screamed until my lungs burned. I screamed for her. I screamed for the past. I screamed for the future that would never come.

The man stood behind me. He put his hand on my shoulder. His hand was heavy. It was like a stone.

"It is done," he said.

"I am not done," I said. "I am not finished."

"You are complete," he said. "You are the circle. You are the wheel. You are the glass."

I felt the pain in my feet. It was sharp. It was bright. It was real. I felt the pain in my heart. It was dull. It was dark. It was real.

I closed my eyes. I let the pain take me. I let the fear take me. I let the love take me. It was a primal thing. It was a beast. It ate me alive. And I let it.

When I opened my eyes, the room was empty. The chair was empty. The table was empty. The door was closed.

I stood up. My feet hurt. I walked to the door. I opened it.

I was outside. The sun was setting. The sky was orange. The sky was red. The garden was behind me. It was a patch of dirt. It was a wound.

I walked away. I walked down the hill. I walked to the road. I walked to the town.

I found my hat. It was on the ground. I picked it up. I put it on. I found my gun. It was in my pocket. I put it in the holster.

I was a man of the law. I had a duty. I had a life to investigate.

I walked into the town. The people looked at me. They saw a man. They saw a stranger. They did not see the ghost.

I went to the inn. I ordered a drink. I drank it. It burned my throat. I drank it. I drank more.

I sat in the corner. I watched the door. I waited for her.

She did not come.

I waited.

I waited.

I waited.

The night came. The stars came. The moon rose. It was full. It was bright. It looked like a face. It looked like her.

I closed my eyes. I saw the garden. I saw the glass. I saw the shatter. I saw the break.

I understood.

I am not the hero. I am not the savior. I am the wound. I am the scar. I am the thing that breaks. And I will break again. And again. And again.

I stood up. I paid for the drink. I walked out.

The air was cold. The wind was hard.

I walked to the ridge. I walked to the edge.

I looked down. The garden was there. It was a dark spot in the earth. It was a hole.

I climbed over the fence. The wire bit my arm. I did not flinch.

I walked into the shatter. The ground was jagged. My boots were new. I did not care if they tore.

I walked to the center. The house was there. The light was on.

I knocked.

"Who is there?"

"Open up," I said. "Police."

The door creaked. It opened inward.

I stepped in.

The room was cold. The air smelled of dust and lavender.

I sat down.

The man was there. He was old. His hands were wrapped in bandages.

"You are late," he said.

"I am on time," I said. "I am always on time."

He smiled.

"You are not the first," he said. "You are not the last."

I looked at my hands. They were shaking.

I took off my hat.

I waited.

I am here.

I am here.

I am here.