The air tasted of copper and old rain. We stood in the Hall of Echoes, a place that did not exist on any map, yet felt more real than the brick houses of our waking lives. It was a summer that never ended. The light was thick, amber, and still.

"Look at it," said Elias. His voice was low, a rumble in the throat. "The moth."

It sat on the velvet cushion before the throne. Its wings were once vast, span of silk and starlight. Now they were ragged. Tattered. The dust of centuries lay in the crevices of its fur. It was a thing of pure exhaustion. I held it in my mind’s eye, though my hands were empty. I was the keeper of this moment. I was the one who had to watch it die.

"It is beautiful," I said. The words felt wrong in my mouth. Too soft. Too small.

Elias turned to me. His face was a mask of cold calculation. He was the King of this nowhere-land. He wore a crown of thorns made of silver wire. It bit into his scalp. He did not flinch. He never flinched.

"Beauty is a debt," he said. "And we are in arrears."

I looked away. The hall stretched out before us, infinite in its geometry. Pillars of white marble rose into a darkness that swallowed the light. There was no exit. There had never been an exit. We had come here for the feast. For the promise of power. I had believed that power was a shield. I was wrong. Power was a weight. It crushed the spirit before it broke the bone.

"Did you love it?" Elias asked. He stepped closer. The floorboards creaked under his heavy boots. "The moth. Did you love it enough to keep it?"

"I loved it," I said. "I held it tight. I thought if I held it tight enough, it would not fade."

Elias laughed. It was a dry, brittle sound. Like branches breaking in a winter wind. "You thought love was a cage. A mistake. Love is a release. You kept it. And so you killed it."

I felt the truth of it sink into my chest. A cold stone. I had been so sure. I had been so proud of my devotion. I had starved myself to feed the moth. I had ignored my own hunger to tend to its wings. I had mistaken my own need for control for its need for care.

"Who else is here?" I asked. My voice trembled. I tried to steady it. I failed.

"Only us," Elias said. "And the memory of what we were."

He raised his hand. The air shimmered. The image of the moth grew larger. It filled the space between us. I could see the individual hairs on its body. They were gray. They were brittle. They were breaking.

"Let it go," he said.

"I cannot," I whispered. "If I let it go, it will vanish. And then what? What is left of us?"

"Freedom," he said. "And pain. But freedom."

I looked at the moth. It was still. It did not move. It was waiting. Waiting for my decision. Waiting for my mercy. I remembered the summer before this one. The real summer. The one with the grass and the sun and the smell of cut hay. I had been an office clerk then. I sat at a desk. I typed numbers into a machine. I felt nothing. I was a ghost in my own life.

Elias had found me. He had seen the emptiness in my eyes. He had offered me this place. A place where feelings were amplified. Where love was a force of nature. Where loss was a physical blow. I had accepted. I thought I was choosing adventure. I was choosing a wound.

"Speak," Elias commanded.

"I am sorry," I said. "I am sorry I held you so tight."

The moth’s wings shivered. A single feather drifted down. It landed on the velvet cushion. It looked like a piece of snow.

"Is that enough?" I asked.

Elias shook his head. "It is not enough. You must understand. You are not the keeper. You are the victim of your own attachment. You cannot save what is meant to decay. You can only witness it."

I felt a surge of anger. It was hot and sudden. I wanted to strike him. I wanted to tear the silver crown from his head. I wanted to scream until my throat bled.

"You are a cruel man," I said.

"I am a necessary one," he replied. His eyes were hard. They were the color of the void. "I am the mirror. I show you what you are. You are a man who loves a dead thing. You are a man who refuses to grieve. And that refusal is a kind of violence."

The hall began to shake. A low hum filled the air. The pillars cracked. Dust fell from the ceiling.

"What is happening?" I asked.

"The end of the feast," Elias said. He stepped back. He looked tired. For the first time, I saw the exhaustion in his face. It matched the moth. It matched the dust. "The illusion cannot hold. You have accepted the truth. And now you must accept the consequence."

The floor opened. A chasm yawned beneath us. Darkness poured up like smoke.

"I do not want to fall," I said.

"No," Elias said. "You do not."

He pushed me.

Not with force. Not with anger. He pushed me gently. As if he were closing a door. As if he were tucking a child into bed.

I fell.

The wind roared in my ears. I saw Elias above me. He was standing on the edge of the chasm. He was watching me. His face was unreadable. I wanted to see regret. I wanted to see love. I saw only indifference.

I fell into the dark.

I landed on something soft. Grass. Real grass. Wet with dew. The air was cold. It smelled of earth and decay. I lay on my back. I stared up at the sky. It was night. The stars were bright. They were sharp and distant.

I sat up. I was in a field. A small field, surrounded by trees. There was a path leading away from the trees. It led toward a road. I could see lights in the distance. Cars. Houses. The world of men.

I stood. My legs were weak. I felt hollow. I felt empty.

I walked to the path. I walked toward the road. I did not look back. I did not look for the hall. I did not look for Elias. I knew he was gone. I knew the moth was gone. I knew I was gone.

I reached the road. A car passed. The headlights swept over me. For a moment, I was blinded. Then the darkness returned.

I walked on. My feet were bare. The gravel bit into my soles. I did not care. I was alive. I was in pain. But I was alive.

I thought of the moth. I thought of the way it had sat on the cushion. I thought of the way I had held it. I thought of the cruelty of my love.

I had thought I was protecting it. I had been destroying it.

I had thought I was saving myself. I had been trapping myself.

I walked until the sun began to rise. The light was pale. It was weak. It was new.

I saw a house. A small house, with a blue door. A dog barked. A woman opened the door. She looked at me. Her eyes were wide. She did not speak. She stepped back. She let me in.

She gave me water. She gave me food. She did not ask who I was. She did not ask where I had been. She saw the hollow in my eyes. She saw the dust on my skin. She saw the weight I carried.

I drank the water. It tasted of metal. It tasted of life.

I sat in the chair by the window. I watched the sun climb. The shadows receded. The world turned.

I was alone. I was free.

I had lost the moth. I had lost Elias. I had lost the summer that never ended.

But I had gained the morning.

I closed my eyes. I listened to the bird outside. Its song was simple. It was clear. It was true.

I did not try to hold it. I did not try to keep it.

I let it go.

And in letting it go, I found myself.

The pain remained. It was a bruise on my soul. It would fade. It would heal. But it would leave a mark. A scar. A reminder.

I was a man who had loved a dead thing. And I was a man who had learned to let it die.

I opened my eyes. The sun was high. The light was warm.

I stood up. I walked to the door.

I stepped out.

The world was vast. It was indifferent. It was beautiful.

I began to walk.

I did not know where I was going. I did not need to know. I was moving. I was breathing. I was here.

The moth was gone.

I was here.