The rain fell hard. It beat against the window. We were walking. I walked fast. Thomas walked slow. He held his cane. The wood was old. It was worn smooth. He looked at me. His eyes were gray. Like the sky.

"Keep up," he said.

I did not stop. My heart beat fast. It was a drum. It was a trap. I was seven. I was small. Thomas was tall. He was my uncle. He was my master.

We reached the house. It was old. The stones were cold. The door was heavy. I pushed it. It groaned. The air inside was stale. It smelled of dust. It smelled of blood.

"Put the bag down," Thomas said.

I put it down. The bag was heavy. It was wet. I did not look inside. I never looked inside. I knew what was in it. We all knew.

"Wait here," he said.

I waited. I sat on the floor. The floor was cold. My knees hurt. I pressed them together. I tried to be still. I tried to be quiet. The house was quiet. But it was not silent. There was a hum. A low hum. It came from the walls. It came from the stones.

Thomas came back. He had a key. The key was brass. It was bright. He held it up. The light caught it. It glinted.

"Come," he said.

I stood up. My legs shook. I followed him. We went down. We went down the stairs. The stairs were dark. The stairs were steep. I held the wall. The wall was rough. It scraped my hand. I did not care. I did not feel the pain.

We entered the cellar. It was damp. The air was thick. There were shelves. The shelves were empty. Except for one. One shelf had a box. The box was wood. It was dark.

"Open it," Thomas said.

I walked to the box. I did not want to. My hands trembled. I reached out. I touched the lid. The wood was warm. It was not cold like the stone. It was warm like skin.

I lifted the lid.

Inside was a mirror. The mirror was round. The glass was old. It was cracked. But it worked. I looked in. I saw my face. My face was pale. My eyes were wide. My lips were blue.

Then I saw him.

Thomas was in the mirror. But not Thomas. It was a boy. A boy with my face. But older. The boy in the mirror had scars. The scars were deep. They ran down his cheek. They ran down his neck.

"Who is that?" I asked. My voice was small. It was a whisper.

Thomas did not answer. He stood behind me. I could feel his breath. It was cold. It smelled of mint.

"That is you," he said.

"I am not him," I said. "I am seven. He is old."

"He is what you will be," Thomas said. "If you stay."

I looked at the mirror again. The boy in the mirror looked at me. He did not blink. He did not move. He just watched. His eyes were full of pain. His eyes were full of hate.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because the cycle," Thomas said. "It must break. Or it must continue."

"I don't understand," I said.

"You will," Thomas said. "Soon."

He turned away. He walked to the corner of the cellar. He sat on a chair. The chair was wood. It was broken. One leg was missing. It wobbled.

"I am tired," Thomas said.

His voice was soft. It was weak. He looked small now. He looked fragile.

"I am not tired," I said. "I am angry."

"Good," Thomas said. "Anger is fuel."

I looked at the mirror. The boy in the mirror was still there. He was watching. I felt a pull. A strange pull. It was in my chest. It was in my throat. It was like a hook.

I wanted to break the mirror. I wanted to smash it. I wanted to end the watch. I wanted to end the pain.

I reached for a rock. A piece of broken pottery. It was sharp. I picked it up. I held it in my hand. It cut my palm. I did not feel it.

I walked to the mirror. I raised my hand. I was going to throw it. I was going to shatter the glass. I was going to free myself.

"Stop," Thomas said.

I stopped. My hand was high. The rock was in my hand.

"If you break it," Thomas said, "you die."

"I don't care," I said.

"You care," Thomas said. "You care about me."

I looked at him. He was crying. Tears ran down his face. They fell on his chin. They fell on his chest.

"I love you," he said.

The words hit me. They hit me hard. They were like a blow. I dropped the rock. It clattered on the stone floor. It rolled away.

"I love you," Thomas said again. "That is the trap."

I did not understand. I wanted to understand. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. But I could not move. I was stuck. I was frozen.

The boy in the mirror smiled. It was a sad smile. It was a knowing smile.

"The cycle," Thomas said. "It feeds on love. It feeds on devotion. The more you love, the more you are bound."

"I don't want to be bound," I said.

"You are already bound," Thomas said. "You were born bound."

I looked at my hands. They were shaking. I looked at the mirror. The boy in the mirror raised his hand. He pointed at me. He pointed at my heart.

"Let go," he said.

His voice was my voice. It was clear. It was sharp.

"Let go," Thomas said.

I did not understand. Let go of what? Let go of him? Let go of my fear? Let go of my life?

"I cannot," I said.

"You must," Thomas said.

He stood up. He walked to me. He was close now. I could see his face. He was pale. He was sick. His skin was gray. His eyes were deep.

"I am dying," he said.

"I know," I said.

"I have been dying for years," he said. "I am tired of the pain."

"I am sorry," I said.

"Forgive me," he said. "For what I did."

I did not know what he meant. I did not know what he had done. I only knew he was my uncle. I only knew he was my teacher. I only knew he was my friend.

"I forgive you," I said.

He smiled. It was a small smile. It was a gentle smile.

"Then you are free," he said.

I felt a change. It was inside me. It was a shift. It was like a door opening. The hook in my chest was gone. The pull was gone. The fear was gone.

I looked at the mirror. The boy in the mirror was fading. He was becoming transparent. He was becoming light.

"Wait," I said. "What happens to you?"

"I go," Thomas said. "I go to the end."

"I don't want you to go," I said.

"You must let me go," Thomas said. "That is the sacrifice. Not mine. Yours."

I understood then. The cycle was not about the mirror. The cycle was not about the disease. The cycle was about the choice. The choice to hold on. The choice to let go.

I had held on. I had held on with all my strength. I had held on because I loved him. I had held on because I was afraid.

But love was the chain. Fear was the lock.

I looked at Thomas. He was looking at me. His eyes were full of hope. His eyes were full of trust.

"I let go," I said.

I closed my eyes. I felt him. I felt his presence. I felt his warmth. I let it slip away. I let it flow out of me. I let it go into the dark.

The mirror cracked. It did not break. It just cracked. A thin line ran through the glass. The boy in the mirror was gone. The glass was empty. It showed only the dark.

Thomas was gone. The chair was empty. The cellar was empty.

I was alone.

I sat on the floor. I did not cry. I did not scream. I was still. I was quiet.

The hum in the walls stopped. The silence was heavy. The silence was thick.

I stood up. My legs were strong. My heart was slow. It was steady.

I walked up the stairs. The stairs were light. The air was fresh.

I opened the door. The rain had stopped. The sky was clear. The stars were out. They were bright. They were cold.

I stepped outside. I looked at the bag. It was still there. It was wet. I picked it up. I carried it to the fire.

I opened the bag. Inside was nothing. Just dust. Just ash.

I threw it in the fire. The fire roared. The dust burned. It turned to smoke. The smoke rose. It disappeared into the night.

I watched it go. I watched it fade.

I was alone. I was free.

But I was not happy. I was not sad. I was empty.

I walked home. I walked slow. My feet were heavy. My mind was clear.

I knew the truth. The cycle was not a curse. The cycle was a choice. We choose to repeat. We choose to suffer. We choose to love.

And in choosing, we are trapped.

I was seven. I was old. I was wise. I was broken.

I went to bed. I lay down. I closed my eyes.

I dreamed of Thomas. He was there. He was young. He was whole.

He smiled at me.

"Goodbye," he said.

"Goodbye," I said.

I woke up. The room was dark. The air was cold.

I was alone.

I never spoke of it. I never told anyone. I kept the secret. I kept the pain.

I grew up. I became a man. I had a family. I had a life.

But I was never the same. I was always looking. I was always listening. I was always waiting.

For the next cycle. For the next trap.

But it never came.

Maybe I had broken it. Maybe I had changed it.

Or maybe it was just waiting.

I did not know. I did not care.

I lived. I breathed. I loved.

And I let go.