The dream begins not with light, but with the smell of damp wool and the heavy, suffocating weight of a woolen cloak that has been soaked in the rain for three days, a scent that clings to the back of your throat like a bad penny and refuses to be spat out, for you are Margaret Holloway, or at least you believe you are, though the name feels like a stone in a shoe that has worn through the leather, and you find yourself standing in the shadow of a tower that is not quite a tower but rather a collection of stones that have decided to stand up and pretend they are something grander than rubble, and the air here tastes of iron and old blood, a metallic tang that coats your tongue and makes your teeth ache in a way that suggests you are biting down on something sharp and invisible, and you realize with a slow, creeping horror that you have been here before, you have always been here, trapped in this loop of grey stone and darker sky where the clouds hang low enough to touch the thatched roofs of the village below and bleed water onto the faces of the people who live there, people who look at you with eyes that are too wide, too knowing, eyes that see not you, the confused clerk from the modern world, but the woman who has died here a hundred times, the woman who is destined to die here again, and this is the first thing you must accept, that your confusion is a luxury you cannot afford, that your identity is a thin veil pulled over the face of a monster, a monster that is you, a monster that wears your face and speaks your voice and commits sins in your name, for in this place, the self is not a singular entity but a palimpsest, a document written over and over until the ink bleeds through and the original text is lost, and you are the ink, you are the paper, you are the hand that writes, and you are the eye that reads, and you cannot escape because you are the very structure of the trap.

You walk down the path, the mud sucking at your boots with a wet, obscene sound, and you see him, Thomas Bradshaw, standing by the well, his hands stained with a dark, reddish-brown that could be rust or could be something far worse, and he looks up, and his smile is not a smile but a mask, a rigid thing that does not reach his eyes, which are cold and hard and filled with a pity that is worse than hatred, for he knows you, he has always known you, and he knows that you will try to save him, or perhaps you will try to save yourself by saving him, and he knows that this is the mistake, the eternal mistake, the mistake that binds you to this place, and you want to run, to flee from his gaze, but your feet are rooted to the earth, as if the ground has grown around your ankles, and you hear his voice, though he does not move his lips, a voice that sounds like the creaking of old wood, like the groaning of a ship in a storm, and he says, You are still you, and the words hang in the air, heavy and thick, and you feel the truth of them sinking into your bones, a cold poison that spreads from your chest to your limbs, and you realize that you have been trying to escape yourself, that you have been running from the person you are, the person who is capable of this, the person who has done this, and the realization is a blow to the gut, a physical impact that doubles you over, and you gasp for air, but the air is too thin, too cold, and it burns in your lungs, and you look at Thomas, and you see in his face the reflection of your own guilt, your own shame, your own monstrousness, and you understand that he is not your enemy, he is your mirror, and you cannot break the mirror without breaking yourself, and you cannot break yourself without dying, and you have died here so many times that death has become a friend, a familiar companion who waits for you at the end of the path, patient and kind and utterly indifferent to your pleas.

You approach him, step by step, each one a labor of will, and you feel the weight of the years, the weight of the centuries, pressing down on your shoulders, and you see the village in the distance, the smoke rising from the chimneys, the children playing in the square, and you think of your brother, Edward, who is gone, who has been gone for so long that his face is a blur, a ghost, a memory that haunts you more than the living, and you realize that your obsession with him, your desperate need to keep his memory alive, is what has brought you here, is what has bound you to this loop, for you have poured so much of yourself into his memory that you have forgotten yourself, you have lost yourself, and you have become a vessel for his grief, a container for his pain, and you have brought that pain with you, into this place, into this time, and you have infected it, you have contaminated it, and now it is all you can see, all you can feel, and you are no longer Margaret Holloway, the clerk, the woman with the sensible clothes and the rational mind, you are the ghost of Edward, you are the echo of his voice, you are the shadow of his love, and you are trapped in the web you have woven, and you cannot see the way out because you are the web, and you are the spider, and you are the fly, and you are the silk, and you are the trap, and you are the one who is trapped.

And then, the second turn comes, not with a shout or a scream, but with a whisper, a soft, gentle whisper that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere, from the wind, from the rain, from the stones, from the earth, and it is the voice of your mother, or the voice of your father, or the voice of the village itself, a voice that says, Let go, and you resist, you fight, you scream, you beg, you plead, but the voice is patient, it is kind, it is loving, and it says, Let go, and you feel the weight lifting, the burden falling away, the years peeling off your skin like dead bark, and you see yourself, really see yourself, not the ghost, not the echo, not the monster, but the woman, the real woman, the one who loves, who fears, who hopes, who dreams, and you see Thomas, and you see that he is not your enemy, he is not your mirror, he is a man, a man who is also trapped, a man who is also lost, a man who is also afraid, and you see that you have been so busy hating yourself, so busy fighting yourself, that you have forgotten that you are not alone, that you are part of a whole, that you are connected to him, to the village, to the earth, to the sky, to the stars, and you realize that the only way out is not to escape, but to accept, to accept your guilt, your shame, your pain, your love, your loss, and to let them be, to let them go, to let them be what they are, and in that acceptance, in that surrender, in that letting go, you find peace, you find freedom, you find yourself, and you see the light, not the light of the sun, but the light of the soul, the light of the spirit, the light of the truth, and you know that you are free, that you are no longer bound, that you are no longer trapped, that you are no longer alone, and you smile, and the smile is real, it reaches your eyes, it warms your face, and you see Thomas smile back, and the smile is the same, the same real, warm, human smile, and you know that you have broken the loop, you have broken the cycle, you have broken the curse, and you are free, and you are happy, and you are at peace, and you are home.

But it is not over, for the light fades, the smile vanishes, the rain continues to fall, and you are still there, standing by the well, looking at Thomas, and he is looking at you, and his eyes are still cold, still hard, still filled with that terrible pity, and you realize that you have not broken the loop, you have only paused it, you have only held your breath, and now you must exhale, and the air is still thin, still cold, still burning, and you feel the weight returning, the burden returning, the years returning, and you know that you will do it again, you will try to save him, you will try to save yourself, you will make the mistake, the eternal mistake, and you will die here again, and you will wake up here again, and you will smell the damp wool, and you will taste the iron, and you will see the tower, and you will know that you are trapped, that you are alone, that you are lost, and you will hate yourself, and you will love him, and you will fear the dark, and you will hope for the light, and you will dream of the end, but the end is never coming, the end is never coming, the end is never coming, and you are never getting out, you are never getting out, you are never getting out, and the rain falls, and the mud sucks, and the tower stands, and you are Margaret Holloway, and you are the monster, and you are the victim, and you are the judge, and you are the jury, and you are the executioner, and you are the one who is executed, and you are the one who is buried, and you are the one who is remembered, and you are the one who is forgotten, and you are the one who is never, ever, ever free.