The sky splits open.

It does not tear like cloth. It fractures like ice.

You are standing in the middle of the street. The cobblestones are wet. Not from rain. From blood. Or maybe oil. The light is yellow. Sickly. Industrial. It hums in your teeth.

You look down.

Your hands are covered in gold.

It is not paint. It is not dust. It is a substance. Thick. Viscous. It clings to your skin. It moves. Slowly. Like honey. Like mercury.

You try to brush it off. You rub your palms together. The friction is hot. It burns. But it does not come off. It spreads. Up your wrists. To your elbows.

Your coat is gone.

You are wearing only a white shirt. The fabric is soaked through. The gold seeps into the weave. The threads glow.

A whistle blows.

It is a long, low sound. A train. Or a siren.

You look up.

There is a train.

It is not on the tracks. The tracks are gone. The rails have melted. They pool on the ground like silver water. The train floats. It hovers six inches above the street. The wheels spin, but they touch nothing.

The windows of the train are black.

Inside the windows, there are people.

You recognize them.

Margaret is there.

She is sitting in the corner. Her legs are crossed. She is holding a book. She is looking at you.

Her face is calm. Too calm.

James is behind her. He is leaning against the glass. His hand is pressed flat against the window pane. He is smiling.

You do not remember smiling.

You look at your hands again.

The gold is reaching your shoulders. It is cold now. The heat is gone. The cold is sharp. It bites.

You walk toward the train.

The street is empty. No cars. No pedestrians. The buildings on either side are tall. Brick. Soot-stained. The windows are dark. The doors are closed.

The train moves. It stays parallel to you. It waits.

You reach the tracks. The melted silver is hard now. It is glassy. It reflects the yellow sky.

You step onto the glass. It does not break.

You stand before the door of the train. The door is closed.

You raise your hand.

Your hand is gold. It is solid. It is heavy.

You press your palm against the door.

The metal ripples.

A voice comes from inside. It is not a voice. It is a vibration. It goes through your bones.

*Open.*

You push.

The door swings inward.

The air inside is stale. It smells of coal dust and old paper.

You step inside.

The interior of the train is endless.

It stretches out in both directions. The ceiling is high. The seats are velvet. Red. Deep red.

Margaret is still there.

She looks up. She closes her book.

"Hello," she says.

Her voice is soft.

"Where are we?" you ask.

Your voice sounds strange. It is thick. The gold in your throat changes the tone.

"We are crossing," she says.

"Crossing what?"

She looks at your hands. She looks at the gold.

"Yourself," she says.

James turns around. He is standing now. He looks tired. His eyes are red-rimmed.

"You shouldn't have come," he says.

"I have no choice," you say.

"You always have a choice," he says. "You just forget it."

You look at the gold on your arms. It is spreading. It is reaching your neck.

"It hurts," you say.

"It is not pain," Margaret says. "It is memory."

"Whose memory?"

"Yours."

The train slows down. It does not stop. It just slows. The hum in the air gets lower.

You sit down. The velvet is soft. It is cold.

Margaret sits opposite you. James stands by the window.

The scenery outside changes.

The brick buildings fade.

They are replaced by fields. Green. Endless.

But the green is wrong. It is too bright. It is radioactive.

The sky is still yellow.

"You are the war," Margaret says.

You shake your head.

"No," she says. "You are the peace."

"I am a clerk," you say. "I work in the office on Fifth Street. I file papers. I type letters. I am no one."

"Everyone is someone," James says. "You just don't know who yet."

The gold reaches your jaw.

You cannot move your mouth.

The words come out slower.

"What is happening?" you ask.

Margaret stands up. She walks to you. She reaches out her hand. Her hand is pale. Normal.

She touches your cheek.

It is warm.

"You are breaking," she says.

"I am not breaking," you say. "I am becoming."

"Are you?"

She looks into your eyes.

Her eyes are gold.

You blink.

You look at your hands.

They are not gold anymore.

They are glass.

Clear. Shattered.

You look at the floor.

Glass shards. Millions of them.

They are everywhere. On the seats. On the floor. On the ceiling.

You look at Margaret.

She is made of glass.

She is smiling.

Her smile cracks.

A fissure runs from her left ear to her chin.

"Margaret," you say.

She does not answer.

She looks at James.

James is made of glass.

He is looking at the window.

The window is gone.

There is no glass. There is no frame.

There is only the yellow sky.

The train is moving through the sky.

There is no ground. There are no fields. There is only the void.

You look at your hands.

You are still glass.

You are transparent.

You can see your own bones. They are white. Fragile.

You try to move.

Your arm shatters.

It falls away.

It hits the floor. It makes a sound like a bell.

You scream.

But you have no mouth.

Your face is smooth.

You are a mirror.

You look at Margaret.

She is looking at you.

She is not a woman.

She is a reflection.

You look at James.

He is not a man.

He is a shadow.

You are alone.

You are in the train.

The train is moving.

The gold is gone.

The glass is everywhere.

You look at the floor.

There is a piece of glass. It is large. It is curved.

It is your eye.

You pick it up.

It is cold.

You hold it to your face.

You look at yourself.

You are not a person.

You are a coat.

A white shirt.

A gold necklace.

A pair of shoes.

You are the things we wear.

You are the things we lose.

You are the things we keep.

The train stops.

The doors open.

There is no station.

There is only the yellow light.

You step out.

The light is solid.

You walk through it.

It feels like walking through water.

It feels like walking through fire.

It feels like walking through your own life.

You see a figure.

It is standing in the distance.

It is wearing a white shirt.

It is wearing a gold necklace.

It is you.

It is not you.

It is the man who filed the papers.

It is the man who typed the letters.

It is the man who died.

You walk toward him.

He walks toward you.

You meet in the middle.

You do not touch.

You look at each other.

He is whole.

You are broken.

He smiles.

You do not.

He turns away.

He walks back into the train.

The doors close.

The train moves.

It disappears.

You are left in the yellow light.

You are alone.

You look down.

Your hands are gone.

Your feet are gone.

You are only the light.

You are only the gold.

You are only the silence.

The light fades.

The dark comes.

It is not black.

It is grey.

It is the color of old paper.

It is the color of dust.

It is the color of forgetting.

You are forgotten.

You are remembered.

You are the crossing.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

You are nothing.

You are everything.

The dark is quiet.

The dark is full.

You are in the dark.

You are in the light.

You are in the gold.

You are in the glass.

You are in the coat.

You are in the shirt.

You are in the self.

You are in the other.

You are in the war.

You are in the peace.

You are in the crossing.

The story ends.

The story begins.

You are still here.

You are still watching.

You are still feeling.

The pain is yours.

The joy is yours.

The gold is yours.

The glass is yours.

The coat is yours.

The shirt is yours.

The self is yours.

The other is yours.

The war is yours.

The peace is yours.

The crossing is yours.

You are the reader.

You are the character.

You are the author.

You are the ink.

You are the page.

You are the silence.

You are the word.

You are the truth.

You are the lie.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

You are the now.

You are the always.

You are the never.

You are the one.

You are the many.

You are the self.

You are the void.

You are the light.

You are the dark.

You are the gold.

You are the glass.

You are the coat.

You are the shirt.

You are the crossing.