The apple hung low. It was red. It was whole. Elias stood beneath it. He was small. His hands trembled.

"Careful," said the voice.

It came from the leaves. It was old. It was kind. It was not human.

Elias reached up. His fingers brushed the skin. It was cool. It was firm. He pulled. The stem snapped. The apple fell into his palm. It was heavy. It was warm.

"Keep it," the voice said. "Do not eat it yet."

Elias tucked it into his pocket. He looked up. The tree was vast. Its branches reached into a sky that was not blue. It was grey. It was thick. It moved like water.

He walked home. The road was long. It was silent. The air tasted of dust and iron. He passed a gate. The gate was open. He passed a house. The house was dark.

He entered. His mother sat by the fire. Her face was pale. Her eyes were closed. She breathed. The breath was shallow.

"Mother," he said.

She did not open her eyes. Her hand moved. It was stiff. She gripped his wrist. Her fingers were cold.

"Where is it?" she whispered.

Elias touched his pocket. The apple was there. He felt its shape. He felt its weight.

"I have it," he said.

She opened her eyes. They were clear. They were sharp. They were hungry.

"Give it to me."

"No," he said.

She sat up. The fire crackled. The shadows lengthened.

"You must," she said. "I am weak. I am fading. Give it to me."

"I will not," he said.

"Why?"

"Because it is not yours."

"It is food. It is life. It is mine."

"It is a gift. It is not a right."

She lunged. Her hand shot out. She grabbed his arm. Her grip was strong. It was painful.

"Give it to me!" she screamed.

The room shook. The dust fell from the beams. The fire turned blue.

Elias pulled back. He held his pocket tight.

"Let go," he said.

She did not let go. She pulled him closer. Her face was twisted. It was not his mother's face. It was a mask. It was a void.

"Look at me," she said.

He looked. He saw the hunger. He saw the emptiness. He saw the truth.

"I am not your mother," she said.

The fire went out. The room was dark.

He ran.

He ran through the door. He ran into the night. The night was cold. The air was thick. He ran until his lungs burned. He ran until his legs failed.

He stopped. He leaned against a tree. It was the same tree. The golden tree.

He looked up. The voice was there.

"You were right," it said.

"I did not know," Elias said.

"You knew. You felt it. You refused."

"Why?"

"Because you are brave. Because you are kind. Because you are human."

Elias closed his eyes. He thought of his mother. He thought of her face. He thought of the fire. He thought of the hunger.

He opened his eyes. The apple was in his hand. He had taken it out. He did not remember doing so.

He looked at it. It was whole. It was red. It was beautiful.

He raised it to his mouth.

He bit into it.

The taste was strange. It was sweet. It was sour. It was bitter. It was earth. It was blood.

He felt a warmth. It spread through his body. It filled his chest. It filled his head.

He fell to his knees. The ground was hard. The grass was cold.

He looked up. The sky was clear. The stars were out. They were bright. They were close.

He stood up. He walked away.

He walked for days. He did not eat. He did not drink. The apple was gone. He had eaten it all.

He felt strong. He felt alive.

He reached a village. It was small. It was quiet. The houses were old. The people were sad.

He entered the square. A woman stood there. She was old. Her hair was white. Her eyes were bright.

"You," she said.

Elias stopped. He looked at her.

"You are the boy," she said. "You are the one who refused."

"I am Elias," he said.

"I know who you are. I know what you did."

"What did I do?"

"You saved us."

He looked around. The people were watching. They were silent. They were sad.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because you chose," she said. "You chose not to give it to her. You chose to keep it. You chose to eat it."

"But I am alone," he said. "I have no one."

"You have us," she said. "You have the truth."

He felt a pang. It was sharp. It was deep.

"I wanted her," he said. "I wanted my mother."

"She was not your mother," the woman said. "She was a thing. She was a hunger. You broke her spell."

Elias looked at the ground. He saw a shadow. It was long. It was dark. It was his shadow.

He looked at it. It moved. It was alive.

He felt a tear. It rolled down his cheek. It was hot. It was salty.

He wiped it away. He looked at the woman.

"What now?" he asked.

"Now you walk," she said. "Now you live. Now you remember."

He turned. He walked away.

He walked into the woods. The trees were tall. The leaves were green. The air was fresh.

He walked until the sun set. The sky turned red. The birds sang.

He found a stream. It was clear. It was cold.

He knelt. He drank. The water was sweet. It was pure.

He looked at his reflection. He was young. He was small. He was alone.

He stood up. He walked on.

He reached a cliff. It was high. It was steep. Below it was the sea. The sea was grey. It was vast.

He stood at the edge. The wind blew. It was cold. It was strong.

He looked out. He saw the horizon. It was flat. It was endless.

He felt a fear. It was large. It was dark.

He closed his eyes. He thought of the apple. He thought of the taste. He thought of the fire.

He opened his eyes. He looked at the sea.

He jumped.

The wind roared. The air rushed. He fell. He fell fast.

The water was below. It was close. It was waiting.

He hit the water. It was cold. It was wet. It was real.

He floated. He breathed. He was alive.

He looked up. The stars were out. They were bright. They were kind.

He floated. He drifted. He was free.

He was alone. He was free.

The story ends. The boy is gone. The apple is gone. The mother is gone. The truth remains. The shadow remains. The silence remains.

The boy was brave. The boy was kind. The boy was human.

He did not give. He did not break. He did not lose. He won. He lost. He lived.

The end is the beginning. The beginning is the end. The circle is closed. The circle is open.

The boy is us. The boy is you. The boy is me.

We all have an apple. We all have a hunger. We all have a choice.

We choose. We live. We die.

The story is over. The silence is deep. The night is long.

The boy sleeps. The boy dreams. The boy wakes.

He is here. He is now. He is real.

The apple is gone. The taste remains. The memory remains. The pain remains.

He stands. He walks. He lives.

The end.