The van hits a pothole and your teeth rattle. It is a bad sound. A dry, clicking sound. You look down at the box in your lap. The glass is cracked. You know it is cracked because you can see the light through the fracture. It is a thin, white line. Like a scar. Like a bone.

"Did you hear that?" David asks. He does not look at you. He looks at the road. The road is gray. The sky is gray. The trees are just smudges of brown and green.

"I heard it," you say.

"You should have packed it better."

"I did."

"You used newspaper."

"I used what I had."

David sighs. It is a long sigh. It goes on for too long. He is your colleague. Or he was. You work at the university. You teach history. He teaches economics. You are not friends. You are not enemies. You are two men who share a lab space and a dislike of the cold. He is younger than you. His hair is thick and dark. Yours is thin and gray. You look at your hands. They are dry. They are shaking.

The van rolls on. It is a small van. It smells of diesel and old coffee. The heater is broken. You are cold. You are always cold now. Your joints ache. Your back aches. Your mind feels like a dusty room. You cannot remember things. You cannot remember the date. You cannot remember why you are here.

"You're going to miss the lecture," David says.

"I am not giving a lecture."

"You are giving a presentation. On the pottery."

"I am not."

"Yes, you are. You told me. You wanted to show the shards."

You look at the box. The shards are inside. They are pieces of a bowl. A blue bowl. It is old. It is beautiful. You found it in the basement of the university library. Under a pile of old maps. It was broken. You put it in the box. You thought you would fix it. You thought you would keep it. You do not know why. It just felt right. It felt like a piece of you.

David drives faster. The van lurches. You hold the box tighter. Your arms hurt.

"Slow down," you say.

"I am going fast."

"Go slower."

"I can't. We are late."

"We are never late. Time does not matter."

David laughs. It is a short, sharp laugh. "Time matters, Professor. Time is money. Time is life."

You say nothing. You look out the window. The fields pass by. They are empty. There is no one there. There are no people. There is only the land. The land is indifferent. It does not care about your pottery. It does not care about your memory. It does not care about you.

You think about the bowl. It was blue. The glaze was deep. It looked like the ocean. It looked like the sky. It was a mirror. You saw yourself in it. You saw your face. You saw your eyes. They were sad. They were tired. You saw the fear in them. You were afraid of forgetting. You were afraid of becoming a ghost. You were afraid of disappearing.

The van stops. David turns off the engine. The silence is loud.

"We are here," he says.

You look up. You are in front of a building. It is a stone building. It is old. It is the old college. The one that was closed. The one that is being demolished. You are not supposed to be here. You know that. You are not supposed to be here.

"Why are we here?" you ask.

"I told you. To show the pottery. To the curator."

"The curator is dead."

"No. He is not dead. He is in the town. He is waiting."

"He is not waiting. He is dead. I saw the obituary."

David looks at you. His face is hard. "You did not see the obituary. You are confused. You are tired. You need to rest."

"I am not tired."

"You are old. You are sick. You need help."

"I do not need help."

"You do. You are losing it. You are losing your mind."

The words hit you. They hit you like a stone. You feel cold. You feel small. You look at the box. The glass is still cracked. The light is still in the fracture.

"I am not losing my mind," you say. "I am losing my memory. That is different."

"Is it?"

"Yes. Memory is data. Mind is soul. I have my soul. I have my mind."

David opens the door. The air is cold. It cuts into your face. You get out. Your legs are stiff. You walk slowly. You follow David. He walks fast. He is ahead of you. You cannot see his face. You only see his back. His jacket is dark. It blends into the gray.

You walk behind him. You are following him. You are chasing him. You are chasing the past. You are chasing the truth. You are chasing the bowl.

You reach the door. It is heavy. It is wood. It is locked. David has a key. He opens the door. The door creaks. It is a long, low sound. It sounds like a groan. It sounds like a warning.

You enter. The room is dark. It is full of dust. The floor is covered in debris. There are bricks. There are stones. There are pieces of wood. The air is thick. It is hard to breathe.

"Here," David says. He points to a table. The table is in the center of the room. It is covered in cloth. The cloth is white. It is dirty.

You put the box on the table. You open it. You take out the shards. They are small. They are sharp. You hold them in your hands. You feel the edges. They cut you. A drop of blood falls on the table. It is red. It is bright.

David watches you. He does not say anything. He is patient. He is cruel.

"Who is the curator?" you ask.

"He is here," David says.

You look around. The room is empty. There is no one. There is no curator. There is no one but you and David.

"He is here," David says again. His voice is soft. It is gentle. It is a lie.

You look at the shards. You put them together. You fit them. They fit perfectly. The bowl is whole again. It is blue. It is beautiful. You hold it up. You look into it.

You see your face. You see your eyes. They are not sad. They are not tired. They are clear. They are sharp. You see the truth.

You are not the professor. You are the student. You were the student. You were young. You were bright. You were full of life. You loved the pottery. You loved the history. You loved David. You loved him with a fierce, primal love. You loved him before you knew his name. You loved him before you knew his face. You loved him because he was the only one who saw you.

Then you got old. Then you got sick. Then you forgot. You forgot who you were. You forgot who he was. You forgot the love. You forgot the betrayal.

David steps forward. He takes the bowl from your hands. His hands are cold. He holds it tight.

"You gave it to me," he says. "Years ago. You gave it to me and you left. You forgot me. You forgot us. I have kept it. I have kept it for you."

You look at him. You look into his eyes. You see the truth. You see the pain. You see the years. You see the waiting. You see the sacrifice.

"I am sorry," you say. Your voice is weak. It is a whisper.

"It is too late," he says.

"No. It is not too late. I am here. I am now."

"You are gone. You are gone."

He walks away. He walks to the door. He opens it. The light comes in. It is bright. It is blinding. You cannot see him. You can only see the light.

You stand there. You stand in the dust. You stand in the cold. You hold nothing. You have nothing. The bowl is gone. The memory is gone. The love is gone.

You are empty. You are hollow. You are a shell.

You walk out. You walk into the light. You walk into the gray. You walk into the void. You do not look back. You cannot look back. There is nothing to look at. There is only the road. The road is long. The road is endless.

You walk. You walk. You walk.

You are free. You are lost. You are alone.

You are you.