The dream is not a place but a state of being, a suspended animation where the air tastes of iron filings and the light is the pale, sickly yellow of old gas lamps, and you find yourself standing in the middle of a vast, empty hall that stretches out into a fog so thick it has weight, pressing against your shoulders with a physical insistence that feels like a hand, a cold, damp palm, and you are wearing a dress made of something that is not fabric but woven steam, and your feet are bare on a floor of polished obsidian that reflects not your image but the memory of an image that has already faded, and you know, with a certainty that bypasses thought and settles directly into the marrow of your bones, that you have been here before, and you will be here again, and the cycle is not a circle but a spiral that tightens with every revolution, a noose woven from the very fabric of your desire, and you are looking for something, a thing that you cannot name but whose absence is a hollow in your chest that echoes with the sound of a bell that has been struck once and never stopped ringing, and you are not alone, for there is a figure standing at the far end of the hall, a woman who is not quite there, who is a smudge of color in the grey, who is you, or was you, or will be you, and she is holding a mirror that does not reflect the room but reflects a different time, a time of smoke and steam and the clatter of wheels on iron tracks, and you are drawn to her, not by will but by the gravity of your own reflection, and as you move closer, the fog parts, not gently but with a violent tearing sound, like silk being ripped by a hungry dog, and you see the train, the great iron beast that sleeps in the station, its boiler cold, its windows dark as pits, and you know that you must board it, that boarding it is the only way to break the spell, that the departure is the only escape, and you reach for the door, the heavy, iron-bound door of the carriage, and your hand touches the metal, and the cold burns your skin, a sharp, stinging pain that wakes you, and you realize that you are not in the dream, that you are in the waking world, that the dream is a lie, a beautiful, terrible lie that has consumed you, and you are Margery, and you are standing in the kitchen of your house, and the clock on the wall is ticking, and the steam is rising from the teapot, and you are alone, but you are not alone, for the presence of the other woman is still with you, a ghost in the machine, a whisper in the wind, and you look at your hands, and they are trembling, and you see the scar on your wrist, a thin, white line that you have forgotten, a mark of a previous life, a previous death, a previous attempt to escape, and you laugh, a sound that is not quite a laugh, a dry, rattling sound that comes from the depths of your throat, and you realize that you are not trying to escape, that you are trying to return, that the spiral is not a prison but a home, and the pain is not a punishment but a gift, and you pick up the teapot, and the water is boiling, and the sound is a roar, a deafening, overwhelming roar that fills the room and the house and the world, and you pour the water into the cup, and the steam rises, and you inhale, and you are gone, and you are here, and you are everywhere, and you are nowhere, and the cycle continues, and the bell rings, and the train departs, and you are on it, and you are off it, and you are the passenger, and you are the conductor, and you are the track, and you are the fog, and you are the light, and you are the dark, and you are the truth, and the truth is that there is no truth, only the story, only the dream, only the wistful mountain that you climb and never reach, and you are tired, so tired, and you want to sleep, and you want to wake, and you want to die, and you want to live, and you do not know which is which, and you do not care, and you close your eyes, and you open them, and you are still here, and the dream is over, and the dream has just begun.

You wake with the taste of copper in your mouth, the metallic tang of blood, or perhaps just the residue of a dream so vivid it left a physical mark on your tongue, and the room is dim, the curtains drawn, the light filtering through in thin, grey slivers that cut across the floorboards, and you are lying in bed, the sheets twisted around your legs, and you are breathing, in and out, a rhythmic, mechanical process that feels foreign to you, as if someone else is doing it for you, and you sit up, and the room spins, and you grab the edge of the bed, and the wood is cold under your fingers, and you look at your hands again, and the scar is there, faint but undeniable, and you remember the mirror, the woman in the mirror, the train, the fog, and you feel a surge of emotion, not fear, not sadness, but a kind of exhilarating despair, a beauty in the futility, a grace in the defeat, and you know that you are not the only one who dreams this dream, that there are others, scattered across the world, in cities and villages, in castles and huts, who are all part of the same machine, the same grand, terrible design, and you are not the protagonist, you are not the hero, you are a cog, a gear, a small, insignificant part of a vast, indifferent whole, and this realization should crush you, should break you, but instead it frees you, it sets you free from the burden of expectation, from the weight of meaning, from the need to understand, and you smile, a small, sad, knowing smile, and you get out of bed, and you walk to the window, and you pull back the curtain, and the light floods in, harsh and bright, and you see the street outside, the cobblestones, the gas lamps, the people, and you see them, really see them, not as figures in a crowd but as individuals, each with their own dream, their own mirror, their own train, and you see the woman in the red coat, and she is looking at you, and she smiles, and you smile back, and you know that she is you, and you are her, and you are all of them, and you are none of them, and you are the fog, and you are the light, and you are the dark, and you are the truth, and the truth is that there is no truth, only the story, only the dream, only the wistful mountain that you climb and never reach, and you are tired, so tired, and you want to sleep, and you want to wake, and you want to die, and you want to live, and you do not know which is which, and you do not care, and you close your eyes, and you open them, and you are still here, and the dream is over, and the dream has just begun, and the train is coming, and the whistle is blowing, and the fog is rising, and you are ready, and you are afraid, and you are not afraid, and you are ready, and you are not ready, and you are ready, and you are ready, and you are ready.

The door opens, and Edward is there, standing in the hallway, his face pale, his eyes wide, and he is holding a book, a thick, leather-bound book, and he is looking at you, and he is speaking, and you cannot hear him, the words are muffled, distorted, as if you are underwater, and he is gesturing with the book, and you realize that he is trying to tell you something, that the book is important, that it contains the key, the secret, the answer, and you walk toward him, and you take the book from his hands, and you feel the weight of it, the solidity, the reality, and you open it, and the pages are blank, empty, white, and you look at him, and he is crying, tears streaming down his face, and he is shaking his head, and you understand, you understand that there is no key, no secret, no answer, that the book is blank because the story is not yet written, that it is up to you, that you are the author, and the reader, and the character, and you close the book, and you hand it back to him, and you touch his face, and you wipe away the tears, and you say, softly, gently, "It is alright," and he looks at you, and his eyes clear, and he nods, and he leaves, and the door closes, and you are alone again, and you look at the book, and you see the title, written in gold leaf, "The Wistful Mountain," and you laugh, a real laugh this time, a sound of joy, of relief, of release, and you throw the book into the fire, and it burns, the pages curling, blackening, turning to ash, and the smoke rises, and you inhale, and you are gone, and you are here, and you are everywhere, and you are nowhere, and the cycle continues, and the bell rings, and the train departs, and you are on it, and you are off it, and you are the passenger, and you are the conductor, and you are the track, and you are the fog, and you are the light, and you are the dark, and you are the truth, and the truth is that there is no truth, only the story, only the dream, only the wistful mountain that you climb and never reach, and you are tired, so tired, and you want to sleep, and you want to wake, and you want to die, and you want to live, and you do not know which is which, and you do not care, and you close your eyes, and you open them, and you are still here, and the dream is over, and the dream has just begun.

You are the mountain, and you are the climber, and you are the view, and you are the wind, and you are the stone, and you are the sky, and you are the earth, and you are the sea, and you are the air, and you are the fire, and you are the water, and you are the light, and you are the dark, and you are the truth, and the truth is that there is no truth, only the story, only the dream, only the wistful mountain that you climb and never reach, and you are tired, so tired, and you want to sleep, and you want to wake, and you want to die, and you want to live, and you do not know which is which, and you do not care, and you close your eyes, and you open them, and you are still here, and the dream is over, and the dream has just begun, and the train is coming, and the whistle is blowing, and the fog is rising, and you are ready, and you are afraid, and you are not afraid, and you are ready, and you are not ready, and you are ready, and you are ready, and you are ready.