The glass is cracked.

I see it now. A fracture line runs from the hinge to the clasp. It catches the gaslight. It sings.

I am in the antechamber of the Ministry. The air is thick with coal dust and ozone. My hands tremble. I hold the mirror. It is my skin. It is my face.

"Mr. Silas," says the clerk. His voice is dry. Like leaves underfoot. "Your turn."

I do not look at him. I look at the crack. I trace it with my thumb. The glass is cold. It bites.

"Silas Vane," I say. My voice is steady. I practice it in the head. "Present."

The clerk stamps the paper. *Thud.* The sound is final.

I step forward. The doors open. They are iron. They breathe.

The Minister sits at the far end. He is small. He is soft. He wears a suit of grey wool. It is perfect. It is dead.

"Sit," he says.

I sit. The chair is hard. Wood. Oak.

"You know why you are here," he says.

I nod. I know. I have known for years. I have worn the mirror like a shroud. I have worn it like a skin.

"I do," I say.

"Then speak."

I open my mouth. The words are heavy. They taste of iron.

"I sought power," I say. "Not for me. For us. For the people. The workers. The poor. I wanted to break the chains. I wanted to free them."

The Minister leans back. He folds his hands.

"And the mirror?" he asks.

I touch the glass. The crack widens. A hairline. A vein.

"It was the only way," I say. "To see the truth. To see the lies. To cut through the fog. The old methods were too slow. Too kind. Kindness is a blade that dulls. I needed a sharper edge."

The Minister smiles. It is thin. It is cold.

"You used the mirror to control," he says. "To distort. To make them see their own fears. Their own hungers. You did not free them. You imprisoned them in their own minds."

I shake my head. "No. I gave them clarity. I showed them what they were. And in that truth, they could choose. They could rise."

"Could," the Minister repeats. "Past tense. They did not rise. They broke. They shattered. Like you."

He gestures to my hand. To the glass.

I look at the crack. It is longer now. It splits the reflection. My face is in two. One side is calm. One side is screaming.

"I did not mean to hurt them," I whisper. "I only wanted to help."

"Intent is irrelevant," the Minister says. "The result is the truth. And the truth is ruin."

I feel a pain in my chest. It is sharp. It is hot.

"Take it from me," I say.

The Minister stands. He walks toward me. His shoes make no sound. He stops before me. He looks down.

"Can you?" he asks.

I look at the mirror. I look at my face. I see the crack. I see the blood.

"Yes," I say.

He takes the mirror from my hand. The glass is warm. It pulses. Like a heart.

He holds it up. The gaslight hits it. The crack glows. It is red.

"Look," he says.

I look.

I see myself. But it is not me. It is a shadow. A void. I see the people I tried to save. They are standing in a circle. They are holding their heads. They are weeping. They are staring at the ground.

And I am the ground.

I am the thing they fall upon.

"I failed," I say.

"You failed," the Minister agrees. "But there is one thing left. One choice. You can keep the mirror. You can keep the power. You can try again. You can fix it. You can mend the crack."

I look at him. His eyes are black. They are deep.

"I can't," I say. "I can't fix it. The glass is broken. I am broken."

"Then break it," he says.

I blink. "What?"

"Break it. Shatter it. Destroy the tool. Destroy the self that holds it. If you do not break it, it will break you. And those who follow you. And those who follow them. The cycle continues. The fog remains."

I look at the mirror. The crack is wide now. It is a wound.

"If I break it," I say, "I lose myself. I lose the part of me that saw the truth. I lose the power to act."

"Yes," the Minister says. "You become empty. You become nothing. You become a man who did nothing. A man who failed."

I think of the workers. I think of their faces. I think of the hope I gave them. I think of the despair I left behind.

"I was proud," I say. "I thought I was special. I thought I was the one who could see. I thought I was the savior."

"Wasn't it?" the Minister asks.

"No," I say. "It was arrogance. It was a lie. I was no different than them. I was just louder. I was just faster. I was just crueler."

I look at the mirror. I see my face. It is fractured. It is ugly. It is mine.

"I choose," I say.

The Minister nods. He steps back. He waits.

I hold the mirror with both hands. My fingers dig into the edges. The glass is hot. It burns.

I close my eyes. I remember the noise. The screams. The silence. I remember the weight. I remember the light.

I open my eyes.

I slam the mirror against the floor.

The sound is a scream. It is a shatter. It is a birth.

The glass explodes. It flies outward. It cuts the air. It cuts the light.

I fall to my knees. I reach out. I try to catch the pieces. They are sharp. They are cold.

I pull my hand back. I do not care. I do not care about the pain. I do not care about the blood.

I look at the Minister. He is watching. He is still.

"I am empty," I say.

"Yes," he says. "You are free."

I look at the floor. The pieces of glass are scattered. They reflect the gaslight. They are small. They are bright. They are beautiful.

I pick up a piece. It is small. It is sharp.

I hold it to my face. I do not look in it. I look at it. I see the light. I see the dust. I see the air.

I see the truth. It is not a reflection. It is a thing. It is here. It is now.

I drop the piece. It clinks on the stone.

I stand up. My legs are weak. My head is clear.

The Minister smiles. It is wide. It is warm.

"Go," he says.

I walk to the door. The iron doors open. The air rushes in. It is cold. It is clean.

I walk out. I walk into the street. The city is dark. The fog is thick.

I walk on. I do not look back. I do not look up. I look at my hands. They are bleeding. They are empty.

I am no one. I am everyone. I am the ground.

I smile.

It is small. It is real.

The glass is gone.

The silence is loud.

I walk into the dark.

I am here.

I am nothing.

I am enough.

The fog lifts.

The stars come out.

They are far.

They are bright.

I do not touch them.

I let them be.

I let me be.

I walk on.

I walk on.

I walk on.

The end is a beginning.

The beginning is a choice.

I chose.

I am free.

The pain is gone.

The hope is gone.

The truth is here.

It is small.

It is mine.

I breathe.

The air is sweet.

The night is deep.

I am small.

I am here.

I am alive.

The glass is shattered.

The mirror is broken.

The self is gone.

The world remains.

I am part of it.

I am nothing.

I am everything.

I walk on.

The street is long.

The city is quiet.

The fog is thin.

The lights are dim.

I am alone.

I am not alone.

I am with them.

I am with the broken.

I am with the lost.

I am with the light.

I am with the dark.

I am with the truth.

I am with the lie.

I am with the choice.

I am with the end.

I am with the start.

I am here.

I am now.

I am free.

The glass is gone.

The silence is loud.

I walk on.

I walk on.

I walk on.