The window is broken.

You know it is broken. You have known for three days. But you do not fix it.

"Did you hear that?" asks your son, Leo.

He stands in the center of the kitchen. The linoleum is peeling at the edges, curling up like dead leaves. The house is cold. It has always been cold, but today the cold feels personal. It feels like a finger pressed against your throat.

"Yes," you say. "I heard it."

"It’s the wind."

"It’s the wind."

Leo looks at the window. He is twenty-two. He looks older. He looks tired. He wears a coat that is too thin for the season. He holds a bag of apples. The apples are red and hard.

"I bought these for you," he says.

"Thank you, Leo."

He places the bag on the counter. The wood is scratched. You have written equations on the counter for years. You have tried to solve the problem of time. You have failed.

"Mom," he says.

"What is it, Leo?"

"Are you coming to the dinner?"

"Who is it?"

"Professor Halloway. And the others."

You shake your head. "No."

"Please."

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I am tired."

Leo sighs. He leans against the counter. The apples roll. One hits the floor. You do not pick it up.

"You’re being difficult," he says.

"I am being honest."

"It’s the same as always. You say no. You say you are tired. You say you are honest. And then you disappear into that study."

"It is not a disappearance."

"It is."

You look at him. His eyes are your father’s eyes. Dark. Deep. Unyielding. He is strong. You are not. You are fragile. Your hands shake. You keep them in your pockets.

"I have to prepare for the lecture," you say.

"You have no lecture. You cancelled it."

"I will give it next week."

"There is no next week, Mom. You know that."

The words hang in the air. They are heavy. They are iron.

You look at the window. The glass is shattered in the center. A spiderweb of cracks radiates out. It looks like a map. A map of something you cannot name.

"I need to think," you say.

"You have thought enough."

"Thinking is what I do."

"Thinking is what is killing you."

The air in the room changes. The silence becomes loud. It presses against your eardrums. You hear your own heart. It beats too fast. It beats too hard.

"Go," you say. "Please."

Leo picks up the apple from the floor. He wipes it on his jeans. He puts it back in the bag.

"I love you," he says.

"I know."

"Come to the dinner."

"No."

He leaves. The door slams. The sound echoes. It bounces off the walls. It returns to you. It is a betrayal. It is a release.

You walk to the study. The door is ajar. You push it open. The room is dark. Dust motes dance in the beam of light from the window. The window is broken. The wind blows in. It carries the smell of the street. It carries the smell of rain. It carries the smell of decay.

You sit at your desk. The desk is covered in papers. They are yellowing. They are brittle. They are your life.

You pick up a pen. You try to write. Your hand trembles. The ink smears. You cross it out. You try again. The ink smears again.

You think of the house. It is a museum. It is a tomb. You have preserved it. You have kept it intact. But it is falling apart. The roof leaks. The walls crack. The floorboards groan.

You think of your father. He was a doctor. He saved lives. He saved yours. He did not save his own. He died in this house. He died in this room. You were ten. You watched him die. You watched his chest rise and fall. You watched it stop.

You think of your mother. She left. She left the day after the funeral. She took her things. She took her dignity. She did not take you. She could not. You were too broken. You were too much like him.

You have been here for twenty years. You have not moved. You have not changed. You have become the house. You have become the silence.

You pick up the phone. It rings. You do not answer. It stops. It rings again. You do not answer. It stops.

You look at the clock. It is three o’clock. The light is fading. The shadows are growing.

You stand up. Your legs ache. Your knees crack. You walk to the window. You look outside. The street is empty. The trees are bare. The sky is grey.

You see a woman walking. She is old. She is walking slowly. She carries a bag. She looks at the house. She looks at the window. She sees the cracks. She frowns. She walks away.

You wave. She does not see you.

You are invisible. You have always been invisible. You are a ghost in your own life.

You go back to the desk. You pick up a book. It is a book of poems. You open it. The pages are soft. You read a line.

*Time is a wound that never heals.*

You close the book. You put it down.

Your phone rings.

You answer.

"Mom?" it is Leo.

"Yes."

"I’m outside."

"Go away."

"Please."

"No."

"I’m not leaving."

"Then stay."

You hang up.

You go to the door. You open it. Leo is there. He is standing on the step. He is shivering. His face is pale.

"You’re freezing," you say.

"I’m fine."

"Come in."

He shakes his head. "No. I just wanted to say goodbye."

"Goodbye?"

"For now."

"Where are you going?"

"I don’t know."

"You have to go somewhere."

"I have to go away from here."

You look at him. He is crying. He is trying not to cry. He is failing.

"Leo," you say.

"I can’t do this anymore, Mom."

"Doing what?"

"Watching you disappear. Watching you die. Watching you leave me here."

"I am not leaving."

"You are."

"You are the one leaving."

"Maybe."

"Come in. Let’s talk."

"I can’t."

"Why?"

"Because if I come in, I’ll stay. And I can’t stay. I have to go. I have to live."

You feel a pain in your chest. It is sharp. It is sudden. It is like a knife.

"Leo," you say. "I am afraid."

"I know."

"I am afraid of being alone."

"I know."

"I am afraid of dying."

"I know."

"I am afraid of you."

He stops. He looks at you. His eyes are wide.

"What?"

"I am afraid of you. Because you are strong. And I am weak. Because you have to go. And I have to stay. Because you are the future. And I am the past. And I cannot let you go. But I must."

He steps forward. He takes your hand. His hand is warm. Your hand is cold.

"I love you," he says.

"I know."

"Please forgive me."

"I forgive you."

"I’m leaving."

"I know."

He kisses your forehead. He turns and walks away. He does not look back.

You stand in the doorway. The wind blows in. It is cold. It is bitter.

You go back inside. You close the door. You lock it.

You walk to the study. You sit at your desk. You pick up the pen.

You write.

*I am the house. I am the silence. I am the broken window. I am the echo. I am the memory. I am the loss. I am the pain. I am the love. I am the end.*

You stop. You look at the words. They are true. They are false. They are everything.

You pick up the phone. You dial a number.

It rings.

It rings.

It stops.

You hang up.

You look at the window. The glass is shattered. The wind is howling. The house is shaking.

You stand up. You walk to the window. You look out. The street is empty. The trees are bare. The sky is black.

You see a light. It is far away. It is small. It is moving.

You wave.

The light does not stop.

The light does not turn.

The light disappears.

You are alone.

You are free.

You are dead.

The window breaks. The glass falls. It shatters on the floor. It is like a rain. It is like a song. It is like a prayer.

You pick up a piece of glass. It is sharp. It is cold. It is beautiful.

You hold it in your hand. You feel the pain. You feel the life.

You smile.

You are the golden echo.

You are the sound that remains.

You are the silence that speaks.