The fog does not lift. It thickens.

You stand before the gate. Iron. Black. Cold.

Beyond it, the village. Stone. Slate. Rain.

You are not from here. You know this. Your bones know it. The air is wrong. Too wet. Too still.

The gate creaks. You push. It opens.

Inside, the street is empty. No dogs. No birds. No children.

Only the mist.

You walk. Your boots sink into the mud. Soft. Yielding.

A house. One window. Light. Yellow. Warm.

You stop. You look.

Inside, a table. Set for two.

White cloth. Silver forks. Two candles.

You are hungry. You are so hungry.

You have walked for days. Or years. Time is a liquid here. It flows wrong.

You need food. You need rest.

You knock.

Knock. Knock.

No answer.

You knock again. Harder.

Silence.

The door opens.

No one is there.

Just a draft. Cold. Smells of woodsmoke and old wool.

You step inside.

The room is small. Round. Walls of rough stone. A hearth. Fire. Dancing.

On the table, the food.

Bread. Dark. Dense.

Meat. Roast. Juicy.

Soup. Steam rising.

You sit. Your legs give way. You fall into the chair. Wood groans.

You pick up the fork. You lift the meat.

It is warm. It smells of iron and rosemary.

You take a bite.

Taste.

Taste.

Taste.

It tastes of ash.

It tastes of dust.

It tastes of memory.

You stop. Your hand freezes.

The meat is not meat. It is clay. Hard. Cold. Grey.

You look at the bread.

It is stone. Grey. Cracked.

You look at the soup.

It is water. Muddy. Cold.

You are not eating. You have never been eating.

You are starving.

You look at the second chair.

Empty.

But the fork is moved. The plate is touched.

Someone was here.

Someone is here.

You look at the mirror on the wall.

Glass. Dark.

You see your face.

Pale. Thin. Eyes sunken.

You look older. Much older.

You look like them.

The people of the fog.

You touch your cheek. It is dry. Dusty.

You are not a visitor.

You are part of the village.

You have always been part of the village.

The realization hits you. A wave. Cold.

You remember.

Not clearly. Fragments.

A house. Brick. Red.

A garden. Roses. Red.

A child. Small. Brown hair.

Elara.

Your sister.

Elara.

You were running. You were leaving.

You said you would come back. You said you would find work. You said you would send money.

You left.

You did not come back.

The fog took you.

The mist swallowed the road.

You walked. And walked.

And the world changed.

The houses became stone. The trees became black. The sky became grey.

You lost your name. You lost your age.

You kept only the hunger.

You kept only the fear.

You kept only the face in the mirror.

Elara.

Where is Elara?

You stand. You walk to the door.

You open it.

The street is empty.

The fog is thicker.

You see a figure.

Far away.

Small.

Brown hair.

Elara.

You run.

Your feet hit the mud. Splash.

You run.

The figure stays still.

It does not move.

It does not turn.

You run closer.

Ten paces.

Five paces.

One pace.

You stop.

It is not Elara.

It is a stone.

Grey. Round. Cold.

Shaped like a head.

You fall to your knees.

You cry.

No sound.

The fog absorbs the sound.

You are alone.

You have always been alone.

You look at the stone.

You touch it.

It is warm.

It pulses.

A heartbeat.

Slow. Faint.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Elara is inside.

Trapped.

Like you.

You look around.

The village.

Every house.

Every window.

Dark.

Except one.

The house you came from.

The light is still on.

The table is still set.

You go back.

You enter.

The food is still there.

The clay. The stone. The mud.

You pick up the fork.

You eat.

You must eat.

To stay.

To remain.

To not fade.

The fog is cold.

If you stop, you vanish.

You become mist.

You become nothing.

You eat the stone.

It grinds your teeth.

It fills your belly.

You are full.

You are empty.

The mirror shows your face.

It changes.

You see Elara’s eyes.

Brown. Deep. Sad.

You are becoming her.

She is becoming you.

You are one.

The mirror cracks.

A line. Thin. White.

It spreads.

The glass shatters.

Fragments fly.

They do not fall.

They hang.

In the air.

In the fog.

Each shard reflects a face.

You.

Elara.

The stranger.

The mother.

The father.

The child.

All faces.

All lost.

All waiting.

You look at the shards.

You see the truth.

You did not leave the village.

The village left you.

It followed you.

It wrapped you in mist.

It fed you lies.

It kept you hungry.

It kept you searching.

It kept you here.

The knowledge burns.

It burns like acid.

It burns like fire.

You know now.

Knowing is a curse.

To know is to be trapped.

To ignore is to survive.

But you know.

You can’t unknow.

The shards drift down.

They hit the floor.

Crack. Crack.

Silence.

The fire dies.

The light fades.

The room goes dark.

You sit in the dark.

The fog presses in.

Through the window.

Through the door.

It enters.

It touches your face.

Cold.

Wet.

It whispers.

No words.

Just a feeling.

A pull.

A draw.

Toward the center.

Toward the heart.

Toward the stone.

You stand.

You walk to the door.

You open it.

The street is gone.

Only fog.

Infinite.

White.

Grey.

You see a light.

Far away.

Small.

Yellow.

It is the house.

It is the table.

It is the food.

It is the lie.

You walk toward it.

Your feet sink.

Mud.

Soft.

You walk.

And walk.

And walk.

The fog swallows your legs.

Your knees.

Your waist.

Your chest.

Your neck.

Your mouth.

Your eyes.

You breathe in.

Fog.

You breathe out.

Fog.

You are gone.

You are here.

You are everywhere.

The fog is thick.

The fog is warm.

The fog is home.

You close your eyes.

You see Elara.

She is smiling.

She is holding a fork.

She is eating.

The food is real.

The bread is soft.

The meat is juicy.

The soup is hot.

She looks at you.

Her eyes are brown.

Deep.

Sad.

Happy.

She says nothing.

She does not need to.

You understand.

You are safe.

You are fed.

You are home.

The fog lifts.

The sun shines.

The birds sing.

The village is green.

The flowers bloom.

The children play.

The houses are brick.

Red.

Bright.

You are in the garden.

Roses.

Red.

You are on the bench.

Wood.

Warm.

Elara is beside you.

She is alive.

She is young.

She is real.

She reaches out.

She takes your hand.

Her fingers are warm.

She squeezes.

You squeeze back.

You are together.

The fog is gone.

The hunger is gone.

The fear is gone.

The knowledge is gone.

You do not know where you are.

You do not know who you are.

You do not know how you got here.

It does not matter.

You are here.

You are with her.

The sun sets.

The stars come out.

The moon is full.

White.

Bright.

It shines on the garden.

It shines on the roses.

It shines on you.

It shines on her.

You are safe.

You are fed.

You are home.

The fog returns.

Slowly.

Quietly.

It creeps in.

It wraps around your ankles.

Your knees.

Your waist.

Your chest.

Your neck.

Your mouth.

Your eyes.

You open your eyes.

You are in the stone house.

The table is set.

The food is clay.

The soup is mud.

The mirror is cracked.

The fire is dead.

Elara is not there.

She is the stone.

She is the fog.

She is you.

You sit.

You pick up the fork.

You eat.

You must eat.

To stay.

To remain.

To not fade.

The fog is cold.

If you stop, you vanish.

You become mist.

You become nothing.

You eat the stone.

It grinds your teeth.

It fills your belly.

You are full.

You are empty.

The mirror shows your face.

It changes.

You see Elara’s eyes.

Brown.

Deep.

Sad.

You are becoming her.

She is becoming you.

You are one.

The mirror cracks.

A line.

Thin.

White.

It spreads.

The glass shatters.

Fragments fly.

They hang.

In the air.

In the fog.

Each shard reflects a face.

You.

Elara.

The stranger.

The mother.

The father.

The child.

All faces.

All lost.

All waiting.

You look at the shards.

You see the truth.

You did not leave the village.

The village left you.

It followed you.

It wrapped you in mist.

It fed you lies.

It kept you hungry.

It kept you searching.

It kept you here.

The knowledge burns.

It burns like acid.

It burns like fire.

You know now.

Knowing is a curse.

To know is to be trapped.

To ignore is to survive.

But you know.

You can’t unknow.

The shards drift down.

They hit the floor.

Crack. Crack.

Silence.

The fire dies.

The light fades.

The room goes dark.

You sit in the dark.

The fog presses in.

Through the window.

Through the door.

It enters.

It touches your face.

Cold.

Wet.

It whispers.

No words.

Just a feeling.

A pull.

A draw.

Toward the center.

Toward the heart.

Toward the stone.

You stand.

You walk to the door.

You open it.

The street is gone.

Only fog.

Infinite.

White.

Grey.

You see a light.

Far away.

Small.

Yellow.

It is the house.

It is the table.

It is the food.

It is the lie.

You walk toward it.

Your feet sink.

Mud.

Soft.

You walk.

And walk.

And walk.

The fog swallows your legs.

Your knees.

Your waist.

Your chest.

Your neck.

Your mouth.

Your eyes.

You breathe in.

Fog.

You breathe out.

Fog.

You are gone.

You are here.

You are everywhere.

The fog is thick.

The fog is warm.

The fog is home.

You close your eyes.

You see Elara.

She is smiling.

She is holding a fork.

She is eating.

The food is real.

The bread is soft.

The meat is juicy.

The soup is hot.

She looks at you.

Her eyes are brown.

Deep.

Sad.

Happy.

She says nothing.

She does not need to.

You understand.

You are safe.

You are fed.

You are home.