The bird is in your hand.

Do you feel it? The weight of it. It is not heavy, but it is dense. A solid knot of feathers and bone. You hold it tight. Your fingers are locked around its chest. You are standing in the center of the Hall. The floor is black marble. It reflects your face. Your face is pale. Your face is old.

"Is it dead?"

The voice comes from behind you. It is smooth. It is wet. It is Thomas.

You do not turn. You cannot turn. If you turn, you will let go. If you let go, the bird will fall. And if it falls, it will break. It must not break. Not yet.

"Yes," you say. "It is dead."

"It looks alive."

"It is dead," you say. "I killed it."

Thomas steps closer. His shadow stretches over you. It is long. It is thin. It reaches for your neck. You do not flinch. You are a soldier. You do not flinch. You have held many things. You have held rifles. You have held doors. You have held your breath in the dark. But this is the heaviest thing you have ever held.

"Who sent you?" Thomas asks.

"You know who sent me."

"I sent you."

"No. The Council sent me. You only carried the message."

Thomas laughs. It is a dry sound. Like leaves scraping on stone.

"The Council is gone, Sir. I burned the records. I burned the names. I burned the rules. I am the Council now."

You look down at the bird. Its eye is open. It is black. It is wet. It looks at you. It looks through you. It sees the truth. The truth is that you love it. Not the bird. The thing inside the bird. The thing that was once your son.

"Let it go," Thomas says.

"No."

"Let it go. It is broken."

"It is whole."

"It is shattered."

You squeeze harder. The feathers crack. A fine dust rises. It smells of iron. It smells of blood. It smells of old rooms.

"Look at it," Thomas says. "Look at what you have done."

You look. The bird is no longer a bird. It is a mess of white shards. It is a cloud of broken bones. It is a ghost. It is drifting away from your hand. It is rising. It is floating up toward the high windows. The windows are tall. They are arched. They are stained glass. But the glass is missing. The light comes in raw. The light is white. The light is cold.

"It is leaving you," Thomas says. "It is leaving your control."

"You are jealous," you say.

"I am your brother."

"You are my traitor."

"I am your mirror."

You try to catch the dust. Your hands are empty. The shards are gone. They have dissolved into the air. They are part of the light now. They are part of the silence.

"Where is he?" you ask.

"Who?"

"Edward."

Thomas smiles. It is a sad smile. It is a cruel smile.

"Edward is in the walls," Thomas says. "We put him in the walls. We made the palace with his bones. Every brick. Every beam. Every stone. He is the foundation. He is the roof. He is the air you breathe."

You feel a coldness in your chest. It is not the bird. It is something else. It is a hollow space. It is a hole.

"That is a lie."

"Is it?" Thomas steps forward. He touches your face. His hand is cold. It is like the marble floor. "You felt it, didn't you? When you held the bird? You felt his heart. It was beating. It was slow. It was weak. It was the last beat."

You remember the garden. You remember the fence. You remember the way Edward ran. He was so fast. He was so bright. He was the sun. And then the sun went out. And the sky turned gray. And you were left in the dark.

"You killed him," you say.

"I saved him," Thomas says. "The world was too loud for him. The world was too sharp. I made him safe. I made him part of something that lasts. I made him eternal."

"Eternal is a prison."

"Freedom is a cage. You know this. You held the cage. You held the bird. You held the pain. You are the only one who remembers. The rest of us have forgotten. We have moved on. We have built new lives. But you. You stayed. You watched the dust settle. You watched the silence grow."

You look at your hands. They are stained. The stain is red. It is old blood. It will not wash out.

"I will not let you win," you say.

"I have already won. I am the palace. I am the power. I am the truth. You are just the keeper of the secret. And secrets rot."

You feel a rage. It is hot. It is bright. It burns in your throat. It burns in your eyes. You are not a keeper. You are a soldier. You fight.

You lunge at Thomas.

He does not move. He does not dodge. He stands still. He opens his arms. You strike him. You punch him in the face. You feel the give of his cheek. You feel the hard bone of his jaw. You punch him again. And again. And again.

He does not fight back. He takes it. He takes it all. His head swings. Blood sprays from his nose. It hits your shirt. It is warm. It is real.

"Is that it?" he asks. His voice is muffled. "Is that all you have?"

You grab him by the collar. You lift him. He is lighter than you expected. He is hollow.

"I am going to break you," you say.

"Break me," he says. "But you cannot break the walls. You cannot break the foundation. You cannot break him."

You throw him to the floor. He lands on the black marble. He does not get up. He lies there. He breathes. His chest rises. It is slow. It is steady.

You stand over him. You are breathing hard. Your heart is pounding. It is loud. It is in your ears. It is in your head.

You look around the Hall. It is empty. There are no other people. There is only the light. And the dust. And the smell of iron.

You look at your hands. They are shaking. You cannot stop them.

You walk to the window. You open it. The wind blows in. It is cold. It is sharp. It cuts your face.

You step onto the ledge.

It is high. It is very high. Below you is the courtyard. The stones are white. They are small. They are far away.

You think of Edward. You think of his face. You think of his laugh. You think of the way he looked at you. He was proud of you. He was afraid of you. He loved you.

You think of the bird. You think of the dust. You think of the shards.

You step out.

The air rushes past you. It is loud. It is silent. It is everything.

You fall.

You do not look down. You look up. At the sky. It is gray. It is vast. It is empty.

You feel the wind in your hair. You feel the cold in your bones. You feel the weight of the bird. It is in your hand. It is in your heart. It is in your soul.

It is not dead. It is flying.

You are flying.

The ground comes up to meet you.

It is hard.

It is black.

It is whole.