The mirror was not glass.

It was skin.

Smooth, pale, and trembling.

I stood before it.

My hands shook.

I am a tinker.

I fix things.

Clocks.

Doors.

Lies.

This was my trade.

The room was white.

Blinding white.

No corners.

No shadows.

Only the wall.

And the wall breathed.

In.

Out.

A wet, rhythmic sound.

Like a lung.

Like a bellows.

I had come here to sell.

Or to buy.

I had forgotten.

The air tasted of copper.

And old blood.

A voice came from behind me.

Low.

Gravelly.

"You are late, Thomas."

I did not turn.

I stared at the reflection.

My face was wrong.

The eyes were too wide.

The mouth was a slit.

A scar ran down my cheek.

I did not have that scar.

Or I did.

I could not remember.

"Who are you?" I asked.

The voice laughed.

It sounded like stones grinding.

"I am the Keeper."

"Of what?"

"Of debts."

I turned.

The room was empty.

But the air was heavy.

A figure sat on a chair made of bone.

A man.

Or something like a man.

He wore a coat of grey ash.

His face was blurred.

Like a photograph left in the rain.

"Thomas Bradshaw," he said.

"Yes."

"You sold your name."

"I sold my skill."

"No."

He leaned forward.

The bones of the chair creaked.

"You sold your memory."

My head throbbed.

A sharp pain.

Like a spike.

I had sold my memory.

To pay for what?

A house?

A wife?

A life?

I could not recall.

Only the debt.

The weight of it.

It sat on my chest.

Crushing me.

"I need it back," I said.

"Everything has a price."

"I have nothing left."

"You have your shadow."

He pointed a finger.

Bony.

Long.

"Look at the floor."

I looked.

My shadow lay there.

But it was thick.

Dark.

And it moved.

It stretched.

It reached for me.

"Take it," the Keeper said.

"Take your shadow."

I stepped back.

"It is part of me."

"It is your sin."

"It is my form."

"It is your burden."

I knelt.

The floor was cold.

Hard.

Like stone.

I touched my shadow.

It was warm.

It pulsed.

Like a heart.

I pulled.

It resisted.

I pulled harder.

Tears streamed down my face.

Hot.

Salt.

I tore it free.

The shadow screamed.

A sound like tearing silk.

I held it in my hands.

It was heavy.

Like lead.

Like grief.

I stood up.

The Keeper smiled.

His blurred face shifted.

For a second, I saw my own eyes.

"Done?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Then you are free."

I walked toward the door.

The white wall.

It rippled.

I pushed.

I fell through.

I landed on grass.

Soft.

Green.

The sky was blue.

Bright.

Cruel.

I was in a field.

A village lay in the distance.

Smoke rose from chimneys.

People moved.

Small.

Ants.

I was alone.

I looked at my hands.

The shadow was gone.

My hands were empty.

But I felt lighter.

Hollow.

A wind blew.

It carried the scent of rain.

And bread.

I walked toward the village.

My feet made no sound.

I was a ghost.

Or a god.

I did not know.

I entered the square.

A fountain stood in the center.

Water splashed.

Clear.

Cold.

People gathered.

They looked at me.

Eyes wide.

Mouths open.

They did not speak.

They watched.

I felt the gaze.

Like needles.

I felt the judgment.

Like fire.

I had no shadow.

I was a thing.

A mistake.

A man without a soul.

I tried to speak.

To explain.

But no sound came.

My throat was dry.

My voice was gone.

I had lost it.

With the shadow.

With the memory.

I was mute.

I was blind.

I was nothing.

A child ran up.

A girl.

Brown hair.

Blue eyes.

She held a doll.

Broken.

One arm dangling.

She looked at me.

Fear in her eyes.

Pity.

She held out the doll.

A gesture.

An offering.

I took it.

My hands trembled.

I looked at the doll.

It was a tinker’s craft.

Wood.

Wire.

Glue.

I knew how to fix it.

I knew the way.

I looked at the girl.

She waited.

Hope in her face.

I picked up a wire.

From the ground.

I bent it.

I twisted it.

I attached the arm.

It was easy.

Too easy.

The doll was whole.

I handed it back.

The girl smiled.

A small, fragile thing.

She ran away.

The crowd watched.

Silence.

Then, a voice.

Old.

Rough.

"Is it true?"

An old man stepped forward.

His face was wrinkled.

Like dried fruit.

He looked at me.

Deeply.

I nodded.

I had no voice.

But I nodded.

He looked at the ground.

At the place where my shadow should be.

He looked at me.

With sorrow.

With understanding.

He reached into his pocket.

He pulled out a coin.

Gold.

Bright.

He held it out.

I did not take it.

I shook my head.

I did not want his pity.

I did not want his gold.

I wanted my life.

I wanted my name.

I wanted my memory.

But I had sold it.

For what?

For freedom?

For peace?

I did not know.

The old man lowered his hand.

He walked away.

The crowd dispersed.

I was alone again.

In the square.

In the sun.

I felt the heat.

On my face.

On my skin.

I was alive.

But I was not whole.

I was a vessel.

Empty.

Ready to be filled.

By what?

By pain?

By joy?

By time?

I sat on the fountain’s edge.

The water lapped.

Close.

I dipped my hand in.

Cold.

Clear.

I saw my reflection.

No shadow.

No scar.

No eyes.

Just water.

Moving.

Changing.

I was a tinker.

I fixed things.

But I could not fix myself.

I was broken.

Irreparably.

I watched the water.

It carried my reflection away.

Ripples.

Fading.

Gone.

I stood up.

I walked.

I had no destination.

I had no home.

I had no name.

I was a shadow.

A ghost.

A man.

I walked into the village.

The streets were narrow.

Cobblestones.

Wet.

Dark.

I passed a shop.

A clockmaker.

The door was open.

Inside, gears turned.

Ticks.

Tocks.

Time.

I stopped.

I looked in.

The shop was empty.

But the clocks ran.

They measured my absence.

They marked my time.

I turned away.

I walked on.

I passed a baker.

Bread.

Warm.

Golden.

I smelled it.

My stomach growled.

I was hungry.

I was human.

I needed food.

I needed rest.

I needed a life.

But I had none.

I was a quest.

A journey.

Without an end.

I walked.

And walked.

And walked.

Until the sun set.

The sky turned red.

Then black.

Stars appeared.

Bright.

Cold.

I looked up.

I was small.

I was dust.

I was nothing.

But I was here.

I was breathing.

I was alive.

I had sacrificed my self.

For what?

For the sake of others?

For the sake of the world?

I did not know.

But I felt it.

A pull.

A connection.

To the people.

To the place.

To the life.

I was part of it.

Even without a shadow.

Even without a name.

I was part of the weave.

The tapestry.

The whole.

I sat under a tree.

An oak.

Old.

Strong.

I closed my eyes.

I listened.

To the wind.

To the leaves.

To the silence.

It was not empty.

It was full.

Full of life.

Full of meaning.

I was not lost.

I was found.

Found in the loss.

Found in the sacrifice.

I was free.

Not from myself.

But with myself.

Without the weight.

Without the debt.

I was light.

I was air.

I was breath.

I opened my eyes.

The moon was rising.

Full.

White.

Bright.

It looked at me.

It knew me.

It did not judge.

It accepted.

I was a tinker.

I had fixed the world.

By breaking myself.

It was the only way.

The only price.

The only truth.

I stood up.

I walked on.

Into the night.

Into the unknown.

Into the light.

I was Thomas.

I was no one.

I was everyone.

I was the quest.

I was the answer.

I was the end.

And the beginning.

I walked.

And I was free.