You stand before the glass.

The reflection is old.

Too old.

You are a scholar of things that do not exist.

Or perhaps things that have been forgotten.

The office is cold.

The air tastes of dust and decay.

Outside, the rain hammers the stone.

It sounds like a funeral.

It sounds like a war.

You look at the plant in the corner.

A fern.

It is dying.

Its fronds are brown.

Crisp.

Dead.

You call it the Wistful Throne.

A name for a weed.

A name for a ghost.

Your hands shake.

You reach for it.

You do not want to.

You must.

The pot is heavy.

Clay.

Cold.

You lift it.

The soil is dry.

It crumbles in your grip.

Black dust falls on your white shirt.

A stain.

A mark.

A sin.

You remember your mother.

She planted this.

Years ago.

She was small.

She was strong.

She smelled of soap and iron.

She said, *Look, Thomas. It breathes.*

You did not listen.

You were busy.

You were writing.

You were building a career on the backs of dead men.

Now you are alone.

The building is empty.

The lights flicker.

One by one, they die.

Darkness takes the room.

You are blind.

You are not afraid.

You are tired.

So very tired.

The clock on the wall ticks.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

A second hand.

A minute hand.

An hour hand.

They all spin.

They all stop.

Time is a thief.

It takes your youth.

It takes your strength.

It takes your mother.

It takes the fern.

You are a traitor.

You know this.

You betrayed her.

You betrayed the plant.

You betrayed the truth.

The truth is simple.

The truth is cruel.

The truth is that nothing lasts.

Except the lie.

The lie that you are important.

The lie that you matter.

The lie that you will be remembered.

You laugh.

It is a dry sound.

Like leaves scraping on pavement.

You drop the pot.

It shatters.

The sound is loud.

Violent.

Final.

The fern spills out.

Roots tangled.

White.

Pale.

Like fingers.

Like bones.

You pick up a piece of root.

It is wet.

It is alive.

You hold it in your palm.

It pulses.

A tiny heartbeat.

A tiny life.

You are a god.

You hold life in your hand.

You can save it.

You can kill it.

You choose.

You choose to save it.

You place the root in your mouth.

You taste the earth.

You taste the blood.

You taste the fear.

You swallow.

It burns.

It spreads.

It fills you.

You are not you anymore.

You are the plant.

You are the root.

You are the soil.

You are the stone.

You are the rain.

You are the wind.

You are the sun.

You are the dark.

You are the light.

You are everything.

You are nothing.

The pain is gone.

The fear is gone.

The time is gone.

You are free.

You stand up.

You walk to the door.

The door is locked.

You push.

It does not move.

You pull.

It does not move.

You are trapped.

You are free.

It is the same thing.

You lean against the wall.

The wall is cold.

It is hard.

It is unyielding.

You slide down.

You sit on the floor.

The darkness is complete.

You are in the void.

You are in the womb.

You are in the grave.

You remember your mother’s face.

It is clear.

It is sharp.

It is kind.

She smiles.

She says, *It breathes.*

You smile back.

You do not speak.

You do not need to.

The meaning is in the silence.

The meaning is in the breath.

The meaning is in the life.

The meaning is in the death.

They are the same.

They are one.

You close your eyes.

You feel the rain on your face.

It is warm.

It is soft.

It is a kiss.

You feel the wind in your hair.

It is cool.

It is light.

It is a whisper.

You feel the sun on your skin.

It is hot.

It is bright.

It is a promise.

You are not alone.

You have never been alone.

You are part of the whole.

You are part of the cycle.

You are part of the truth.

The truth is not cruel.

The truth is kind.

The truth is just.

Justice comes.

It comes in the form of a fern.

It comes in the form of a root.

It comes in the form of a memory.

It comes in the form of a breath.

You take a breath.

It is deep.

It is full.

It is yours.

You hold it.

You keep it.

You are the keeper.

You are the guardian.

You are the throne.

The throne is not a chair.

The throne is a place.

The place where you are.

The place where you belong.

The place where you are free.

You open your eyes.

The light is back.

The room is bright.

The rain has stopped.

The sun is shining through the window.

The fern is gone.

The pot is broken.

The root is in your stomach.

You are whole.

You are healed.

You are changed.

You stand up.

You look at the mirror.

The reflection is young.

The reflection is strong.

The reflection is alive.

You touch your face.

It is real.

It is yours.

You turn away from the mirror.

You walk to the door.

The door is open.

The hallway is empty.

The stairs are long.

The stairs are steep.

You climb them.

One by one.

Step by step.

Breath by breath.

You reach the top.

The door to the outside is there.

It is heavy.

It is iron.

It is cold.

You push it open.

The air rushes in.

It is fresh.

It is clean.

It is sweet.

You step out.

The world is waiting.

The world is bright.

The world is new.

You walk into the light.

You walk into the future.

You walk into the life.

You do not look back.

There is nothing to look back at.

There is only forward.

There is only now.

There is only you.

And the breath.

And the life.

And the truth.

And the justice.

And the freedom.

And the love.

And the end.

And the beginning.

And the middle.

And the everything.

You are the Wistful Throne.

You are the seat of power.

You are the place of rest.

You are the place of peace.

You are the place of life.

You are the place of death.

You are the place of rebirth.

You are the place of all things.

You are the place of nothing.

You are the place of everything.

You are the place of you.

And that is enough.

That is more than enough.

That is everything.

You smile.

You walk.

You live.