The rain did not fall. It was pushed.

I felt it against the shield. A dull, rhythmic thud. Then another. The mud of the road had turned to soup. We walked in single file. My boots sank to the ankle. The leather creaked.

"Keep moving, Master Ashworth," the Sergeant said.

He walked ahead. His back was broad. He did not look back. He never did. I am the lowest of his men. I carry the mirror. It is not a common thing. It is a shard of obsidian, framed in iron. It is heavy. It is cold.

"Is it heavy?" I asked.

"Drop it and you die," he said.

"I do not wish to die."

"Then hold on."

We were walking to the Keep. The Keep was on a hill. The sky was gray. The trees were bare. We had been walking for three days. My hands were numb. The iron frame bit into my palms.

The mirror is my inheritance. My father gave it to me. He was a knight. He died in the winter. He said, "This is your truth, Thomas. Keep it safe. Do not look into it."

I have kept it safe. I have never looked into it. I only carry it.

"Why do you carry it?" the Sergeant asked.

He turned then. His face was grim. Rain ran down his nose.

"It is my duty," I said.

"Duty," he spat. "We are soldiers. We fight. We do not carry glass."

"It is not glass."

"It is rock."

"It is obsidian."

"Rock is rock."

He looked at me. His eyes were tired. There were lines around them. Deep lines. He is old. I am young. But we are both tired.

"Your father," he said.

"Yes."

"Did he serve the Crown?"

"He served the King."

"The King is a fool."

I said nothing.

"The King orders us to march. To die. For what? For a stone? For a mirror?"

"For the peace of the land," I said.

"The land is mud," he said. "The land is cold."

We walked on. The mud sucked at our feet. A sound came from the trees. A branch broke.

"Halt," the Sergeant said.

We stopped. I gripped the mirror. The iron was cold.

"Who is there?" he called out.

Silence.

Then a man stepped out. He wore a cloak of gray wool. He held a spear. The tip was wet.

"Who are you?" the Sergeant asked.

"I am a witness," the man said.

"A spy?"

"I am a witness."

"Drop your weapon," the Sergeant ordered.

The man did not drop it. He pointed it at us.

"Come with me," the man said. "The Keep is not what you think."

"The Keep is the Keep," the Sergeant said.

"The Keep is a trap."

"We are soldiers. We follow orders."

"Orders are chains," the witness said.

The Sergeant raised his sword. "Step aside."

The witness laughed. It was a dry sound. Like leaves scraping on stone.

"You cannot fight time," the witness said.

The Sergeant charged.

He moved fast. His sword flashed. The witness dodged. The tip of the sword cut the air. The witness spun. His spear thrust out.

It hit the Sergeant in the chest.

The Sergeant stopped. He looked down. He saw the spear in his heart. He gasped. He fell.

The mud caught him. He did not rise.

I stood still. My hands were shaking. The mirror was in my arms. It was lighter now. Or I was weaker.

"Go," the witness said.

"I must bury him," I said.

"Go. The Keep waits."

I looked at the Sergeant. His eyes were open. They were staring at the sky. The rain had stopped. The air was still.

I turned. I walked away. I did not look back.

The witness was gone.

I walked alone. The road was empty. The trees watched. The sky was clear. The stars were out.

I reached the Keep at dawn. The gates were open. The guards were gone. The courtyard was silent.

I walked in. The stones were cold. I felt the cold in my bones.

I went to the center of the courtyard. There was a pedestal. It was made of white stone. On the pedestal was a hollow. A hole in the shape of a mirror.

I put the mirror in the hole. It fit. It was perfect.

I stood back. I looked at it.

The surface was black. It reflected nothing. It was a void.

I should leave. I should go home. I should bury my father. I should remember my mother.

But I did not leave.

I sat down. I put my head in my hands. I waited.

Time passed. I do not know how long. Hours. Days. I do not know.

I heard footsteps.

A woman walked into the courtyard. She wore a dress of red. Her hair was loose. She held a basket.

"Thomas?" she said.

I looked up.

It was my mother.

She was dead. She died five years ago. She died in her sleep.

"Mother?" I said.

She smiled. It was sad.

"You are here," she said.

"I am here."

"Did you bring it?"

"I brought it."

"Is it heavy?"

"It is heavy."

She came closer. She reached out. She touched the mirror.

"It is warm," she said.

I looked at the mirror. It was not warm. It was cold.

"You must look," she said.

"I cannot."

"You must."

"Why?"

"Because it is your truth."

I stood up. My legs were stiff. I walked to the pedestal.

I looked into the mirror.

I saw myself.

But I was not young. I was old. My hair was white. My face was wrinkled. My eyes were deep.

I saw my hands. They were spotted. They were weak.

I saw my body. It was bent. It was frail.

I saw my father. He stood behind me. He was old. He was smiling.

I saw the Sergeant. He was old. He was smiling.

I saw the witness. He was old. He was smiling.

I saw my mother. She was young. She was beautiful.

I looked away.

I turned to her. "Who are you?"

"I am your memory," she said.

"I am real," I said.

"You are a ghost," she said.

I touched my face. I felt the skin. I felt the cold.

"I am alive," I said.

"You are dying," she said.

The courtyard changed. The stones cracked. The sky turned dark.

The mirror cracked.

A single line ran down the center.

I felt a pain. A sharp pain in my chest.

I fell.

I lay on the ground. The stones were rough.

I looked up. The sky was black.

The mirror was on the pedestal. It was broken.

Pieces of obsidian lay on the ground. They glittered in the dark.

I tried to stand. I could not.

My legs would not move.

My arms were heavy.

I could not breathe.

I looked at the pieces.

One piece reflected the moon.

Another piece reflected the stars.

Another piece reflected my face.

My face was old.

I closed my eyes.

I remembered my father. He gave me the mirror. He said, "Keep it safe."

I kept it safe.

I let it break.

The pain was gone.

The cold was gone.

I was still.

I was free.

The rain began again.

It fell on the broken mirror.

It fell on my face.

I did not move.

I was the mirror.

I was the shard.

I was the dust.

The story is over.

The road is long.

The mud is deep.

I am home.

I am gone.

The mirror is silent.

The sky is gray.

The earth is cold.

I am nothing.

I am everything.

The end.