The glass shatters before the sound arrives.

You are standing in the center of the atrium. Your hands are full of shards. They cut into your palms. You do not feel it. You only look. The light from the skylight hits the broken pane. It fractures. It rains down. White dust. Sharp edges. Silence.

Then the noise. A roar. Not a crash. A roar. Like a beast waking.

The security guards are already moving. They do not run. They glide. Black uniforms. Smooth faces. They move around the puddle of water and glass. They do not look at you. They look through you.

You wipe your hands on your trousers. The blood is bright. Red against the grey wool. You stand still. You wait.

A voice cuts through the air. It is calm. It is cold.

"Stop that."

It is Director Hale. He stands on the mezzanine. He holds a tablet. He does not look down. He looks at the screen. His face is a mask of bored authority.

"I said stop that," he says again.

You do not move. You are the craftsman. You are the master of the small, the broken, the forgotten. You fix what others discard. In this city, nothing is discarded. Everything is monitored. Everything is recorded. You fix the past. You keep it alive in the quiet hours.

But today, the system broke.

The guards stop. They form a circle. You are in the center. You hold the shards. You hold your blood.

"Pick them up," Hale says.

"I can't," you say. Your voice is steady. "The floor is wet."

"Pick. Them. Up."

You kneel. Your knees hit the cold tile. It is a shock. A jolt. You pick up a shard. It is long. It is sharp. You place it in your pocket. Then another. And another. You do not hurry. You do not rush. You take your time.

The guards watch. They do not breathe.

You stand. Your pockets are heavy. You walk toward the exit.

"Wait."

Hale walks down the stairs. He does not run. He descends with dignity. He wears a white coat. It is clean. It is perfect. It is a lie.

"You have destroyed property," he says.

"It was already broken," you say.

"Who told you that?"

"I saw it."

"You saw nothing. You saw what you wanted to see."

He stops in front of you. He smells of soap. And something else. Something metallic. Like old coins. Like rust.

"Give me the glass," he says.

"No."

He smiles. It is a thin smile. It does not reach his eyes.

"You are a craftsman," he says. "You know the value of things. You know that some things are better left alone."

"I know that some things are better left broken," you say.

He nods. He turns to the guards.

"Take him to the Workshop."

They grab your arms. They are strong. They are gentle. They do not hurt you. They do not need to. You walk with them. You walk out of the atrium. You walk into the elevator. The doors close. The numbers change. 1. 2. 3. Down.

The Workshop is below. It is dark. It is warm. It smells of dust and old paper. It smells of time.

They lead you into a room. There is a table. There is a lamp. There are tools. Your tools. Your hammer. Your chisel. Your pliers. They are there. They are waiting.

Hale enters. He does not look at the tools. He looks at you.

"Sit," he says.

You sit. The chair creaks.

"You have been here for ten years," Hale says. "Ten years. You fix the clocks. You fix the radios. You fix the toys. You make the old things new. Do you know why we keep you?"

"No," you say.

"Because you are a mirror," he says. "You show us what we are. You show us what we have lost. You hold the past. You hold the pain. You hold the truth. And you keep it safe. You keep it quiet."

"I keep it alive," you say.

"No," he says. "You keep it dead. You put it in a box. You lock it away. You do not let it out. You do not let it speak."

He walks to the table. He picks up a clock. It is small. It is old. It is broken.

"Fix it," he says.

You look at the clock. You look at your hands. They are bleeding. You look at the tools.

"I can't," you say.

"Why?"

"Because it is broken."

"Fix it."

You pick up the clock. You pick up the pliers. You open the case. The gears are stripped. The springs are loose. It is a mess. It is a disaster.

You work. Your hands move. They are fast. They are precise. You tighten the screw. You wind the spring. You set the hand. The clock ticks. Then it ticks again. Then it stops.

Hale watches. He does not blink.

"Again," he says.

You work. You fix it. It ticks. It stops. You fix it. It ticks. It stops.

"Again," he says.

You work. You fix it. It ticks. It stops.

You are tired. You are hungry. You are thirsty. You do not stop. You do not speak. You work.

Hours pass. The light changes. The shadows grow long.

"Stop," Hale says.

You stop. Your hands are shaking.

"You cannot fix it," he says. "It is broken. It will always be broken. You can only delay the end. You can only postpone the silence. That is all you do. You delay. You postpone. You make the pain last longer."

You look at the clock. It is still. It is dead.

"Yes," you say.

"And that is why we need you," he says. "Because you understand. You understand that the end is coming. You understand that nothing lasts. You understand that you must hold on. Even when it hurts. Even when it breaks. You must hold on."

He walks to the door. He stops. He turns back.

"Tomorrow, the city will change," he says. "The new system will be installed. The old things will be erased. The clocks will stop. The radios will be silent. The toys will be broken. And you will be there. You will fix them. You will keep them alive. You will hold the pain. You will hold the truth. You will be the mirror."

He leaves. The door closes.

You are alone.

You look at the clock. You look at your hands. You look at the glass in your pocket.

You pick up the pliers. You pick up the clock. You break it. You smash the face. You strip the gears. You tear the springs. You destroy it. You destroy it completely.

You sit in the dark. You sit in the silence.

You are the craftsman. You are the master. You are the mirror.

You hold the pieces. You hold the blood. You hold the truth.

The elevator chimes. The doors open.

Hale stands there. He is calm. He is cold.

"You have destroyed it," he says.

"Yes," you say.

"Good," he says.

He walks in. He picks up a piece of the clock. He holds it up to the light.

"Now you are free," he says. "Now you can stop. Now you can rest. Now you can let go."

You stand. You walk to the table. You pick up the hammer. You pick up the glass. You hold them tight.

"I am not free," you say.

"You are," he says. "You have nothing left to fix. You have nothing left to hold. You have nothing left to fear."

You look at him. You look at his face. You see the fear. You see the pain. You see the lie.

"I am not free," you say again.

You strike him. You strike him with the hammer. You strike him with the glass. You strike him until he falls. You strike him until he is still.

You stop. You breathe. Your hands are shaking. Your hands are bleeding.

You walk to the door. You open it. You walk out.

The Workshop is empty. The lights are off. The silence is heavy.

You walk to the elevator. You press the button. The doors open. You step in. You press the button for the top.

The doors close. The numbers change. 1. 2. 3. Up.

You stand in the elevator. You look at your hands. You look at the blood. You look at the glass.

You are the craftsman. You are the master. You are the mirror.

You hold the pieces. You hold the blood. You hold the truth.

The doors open. The light is bright. The atrium is empty. The glass is gone. The water is gone. The silence is gone.

You walk out. You walk into the city.

The city is quiet. The streets are empty. The lights are off. The clocks are stopped. The radios are silent. The toys are broken.

You walk. You walk. You walk.

You are not free. You are not safe. You are not alone.

You are the mirror. You are the holder. You are the keeper.

You hold the past. You hold the pain. You hold the truth.

You walk into the dark. You walk into the silence. You walk into the end.

You do not stop. You do not rest. You do not let go.

You hold on.

You hold on.

You hold on.