The pot was white. It was the only white thing in the room.

"Is it alive?" Thomas asked.

The woman in the gray hood did not look up. Her fingers moved with a rhythmic, dry scratching sound against the soil. "Ask it," she said.

Thomas leaned closer. The plant was small. A twist of dark wood. No leaves. Just a knot of bark that looked like a closed eye.

"It’s dead," Thomas said.

"Everything is dead," the woman said. "That is the rule."

Thomas pulled back. He looked at the door. The heavy oak was barred from the outside. He could see the light of the courtyard beyond the window, but it was the wrong color. It was the color of old blood. The air smelled of wet ash and copper.

"Who are you?" Thomas asked.

"I am the Keeper," she said. She turned the pot. The white clay was chipped at the rim. "And you are the new boy. Sit."

Thomas did not sit. He looked at the other chairs. They were empty. They were shaped like birds with their beaks open, but they had no tongues.

"I don’t want to be here," Thomas said.

"The institution does not care what you want," the Keeper said. "The institution cares what you become."

Thomas felt a cold spot in his chest. He remembered the hall at home. The long table. His sister, Elara. She was sitting at the end, her hair like a dark river. She was eating a pear. The juice ran down her chin.

"Elara," Thomas said.

The Keeper stopped working. The scratching sound stopped. The silence was loud.

"Say her name again," she said.

"Elara."

"Who is she?"

"My sister."

"She is not here."

"She is in my head," Thomas said. "She is in the pot."

The Keeper laughed. It was a dry sound, like leaves skittering over stone. "You are clever, Thomas. The others break. They cry. They throw the pots. You just look."

Thomas looked at the pot. The white clay seemed to breathe. A tiny pulse.

"What is the game?" Thomas asked.

"There is no game," the Keeper said. "There is only the cycle. We plant. We prune. We wait. We plant again."

"Who do we plant?"

"Ourselves," she said. "That is the trick. You think you are gardening a tree. You are gardening your memory. When the tree dies, the memory dies. When you forget, you are free."

Thomas felt a sharp pain in his temple. He pressed his hand to his forehead. The skin was hot.

"I don't want to be free," Thomas said.

"Why?"

"Because she is waiting for me."

The Keeper stood up. She was tall. Too tall. Her hood fell back, revealing a face that was smooth, like a mask. There were no wrinkles. There were no scars. There was only a flat, pale surface.

"You are the seventh," she said.

"What does that mean?"

"It means six boys have sat in this chair. They have all tried to keep the memory. They have all failed. The tree has eaten them."

Thomas looked at the knot of bark. It was growing. A new shoot, thin as a hair, was pushing through the soil.

"I am not like them," Thomas said.

"You are exactly like them," the Keeper said. "You are just faster."

Thomas picked up the trowel. It was cold iron. He dug into the soil. It was soft. It smelled of rain, even though it had not rained in months.

"Elara," he whispered. "I’m coming."

The Keeper watched him. Her eyes were black holes. "Stop," she said.

Thomas ignored her. He dug. He found a root. It was white. It pulsed. He held it in his hand. It was warm. It felt like a vein.

"She is in there," Thomas said.

"She is in you," the Keeper corrected. "The tree is a mirror. What you see is what you are. If you dig too deep, you will break the glass."

Thomas smiled. It was a small, sad smile. "I don't care about the glass."

The room began to shake. The dust fell from the ceiling. The chairs with the bird shapes clattered against each other.

"You are breaking the cycle," the Keeper said. Her voice was high. Thin. "You cannot escape. The institution is eternal. You will be planted. You will be pruned. You will be forgotten."

"Let me forget," Thomas said. "Let me forget her. Just let me see her one more time."

The Keeper stepped forward. She reached out her hand. Her fingers were long. They curled around the neck of the pot.

"Look," she said.

Thomas looked.

The knot of bark split open.

It was not a leaf. It was a face.

It was Elara’s face.

She was small. She was trapped inside the wood. Her eyes were wide. Her mouth was open, but no sound came out.

"Thomas," the face said. It was not a voice. It was a vibration in the air. "Let go."

"No," Thomas said. He tightened his grip on the root. "I won't let go. I will carry you. I will carry you out."

The room exploded.

Not with fire. Not with smoke. With light. A blinding, white light.

Thomas felt himself being pulled. The roots were pulling him. The white clay was dissolving. He was sinking into the soil.

He saw the courtyard. He saw the gate. He saw the world outside.

But he could not move.

He was becoming the tree.

His legs were roots. His arms were branches. His head was the knot.

The Keeper was gone.

The silence was absolute.

Then, a hand touched his shoulder.

It was a child’s hand.

Thomas looked up.

A boy stood before him. He was small. He had Thomas’s face. He had Elara’s eyes.

"Is it alive?" the boy asked.

Thomas tried to speak. But his mouth was bark.

The boy leaned closer.

"It’s dead," the boy said.

"Everything is dead," a voice said from behind the boy. "That is the rule."

The boy looked at the white pot. He looked at the knot of wood that was Thomas.

"Who is she?" the boy asked.

"Who is she?" Thomas thought. He tried to say, *She is my sister. She is my love. She is my pain.*

But the words were leaves. They fell to the ground.

The boy did not know.

The boy picked up the trowel.

"Let me help," the boy said.

Thomas felt the soil. He felt the dark. He felt the cycle turning.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to break the glass.

But the tree is patient. The tree is eternal.

The boy dug.

The memory began to fade.

Elara’s face in the wood became smooth. It became blank. It became clay.

Thomas let go.

He let go.

He let go.

The light returned.

The room was quiet.

The pot was white.

It was the only white thing in the room.

"Is it alive?" Thomas asked.

The woman in the gray hood did not look up. Her fingers moved with a rhythmic, dry scratching sound against the soil.

"Ask it," she said.

Thomas leaned closer. The plant was small. A twist of dark wood. No leaves. Just a knot of bark that looked like a closed eye.

"It’s dead," Thomas said.

"Everything is dead," the woman said. "That is the rule."

Thomas pulled back. He looked at the door. The heavy oak was barred from the outside. He could see the light of the courtyard beyond the window, but it was the wrong color. It was the color of old blood. The air smelled of wet ash and copper.

"Who are you?" Thomas asked.

"I am the Keeper," she said. She turned the pot. The white clay was chipped at the rim. "And you are the new boy. Sit."

Thomas did not sit. He looked at the other chairs. They were empty. They were shaped like birds with their beaks open, but they had no tongues.

"I don't want to be here," Thomas said.

"The institution does not care what you want," the Keeper said. "The institution cares what you become."

Thomas felt a cold spot in his chest. He remembered the hall at home. The long table. His sister, Elara. She was sitting at the end, her hair like a dark river. She was eating a pear. The juice ran down her chin.

"Elara," Thomas said.

The Keeper stopped working. The scratching sound stopped. The silence was loud.

"Say her name again," she said.

"Elara."

"Who is she?"

"My sister."

"She is not here."

"She is in my head," Thomas said. "She is in the pot."

The Keeper laughed. It was a dry sound, like leaves skittering over stone. "You are clever, Thomas. The others break. They cry. They throw the pots. You just look."

Thomas looked at the pot. The white clay seemed to breathe. A tiny pulse.

"What is the game?" Thomas asked.

"There is no game," the Keeper said. "There is only the cycle. We plant. We prune. We wait. We plant again."

"Who do we plant?"

"Ourselves," she said. "That is the trick. You think you are gardening a tree. You are gardening your memory. When the tree dies, the memory dies. When you forget, you are free."

Thomas felt a sharp pain in his temple. He pressed his hand to his forehead. The skin was hot.

"I don't want to be free," Thomas said.

"Why?"

"Because she is waiting for me."

The Keeper stood up. She was tall. Too tall. Her hood fell back, revealing a face that was smooth, like a mask. There were no wrinkles. There were no scars. There was only a flat, pale surface.

"You are the eighth," she said.

"What does that mean?"

"It means seven boys have sat in this chair. They have all tried to keep the memory. They have all failed. The tree has eaten them."

Thomas looked at the knot of bark. It was growing. A new shoot, thin as a hair, was pushing through the soil.

"I am not like them," Thomas said.

"You are exactly like them," the Keeper said. "You are just faster."

Thomas picked up the trowel. It was cold iron. He dug into the soil. It was soft. It smelled of rain, even though it had not rained in months.

"Elara," he whispered. "I’m coming."

The Keeper watched him. Her eyes were black holes. "Stop," she said.

Thomas ignored her. He dug. He found a root. It was white. It pulsed. He held it in his hand. It was warm. It felt like a vein.

"She is in there," Thomas said.

"She is in you," the Keeper corrected. "The tree is a mirror. What you see is what you are. If you dig too deep, you will break the glass."

Thomas smiled. It was a small, sad smile. "I don't care about the glass."

The room began to shake. The dust fell from the ceiling. The chairs with the bird shapes clattered against each other.

"You are breaking the cycle," the Keeper said. Her voice was high. Thin. "You cannot escape. The institution is eternal. You will be planted. You will be pruned. You will be forgotten."

"Let me forget," Thomas said. "Let me forget her. Just let me see her one more time."

The Keeper stepped forward. She reached out her hand. Her fingers were long. They curled around the neck of the pot.

"Look," she said.

Thomas looked.

The knot of bark split open.

It was not a leaf. It was a face.

It was Elara’s face.

She was small. She was trapped inside the wood. Her eyes were wide. Her mouth was open, but no sound came out.

"Thomas," the face said. It was not a voice. It was a vibration in the air. "Let go."

"No," Thomas said. He tightened his grip on the root. "I won't let go. I will carry you. I will carry you out."

The room exploded.

Not with fire. Not with smoke. With light. A blinding, white light.

Thomas felt himself being pulled. The roots were pulling him. The white clay was dissolving. He was sinking into the soil.

He saw the courtyard. He saw the gate. He saw the world outside.

But he could not move.

He was becoming the tree.

His legs were roots. His arms were branches. His head was the knot.

The Keeper was gone.

The silence was absolute.

Then, a hand touched his shoulder.

It was a child’s hand.

Thomas looked up.

A boy stood before him. He was small. He had Thomas’s face. He had Elara’s eyes.

"Is it alive?" the boy asked.

Thomas tried to speak. But his mouth was bark.

The boy leaned closer.

"It’s dead," the boy said.

"Everything is dead," a voice said from behind the boy. "That is the rule."

The boy looked at the white pot. He looked at the knot of wood that was Thomas.

"Who is she?" the boy asked.

"Who is she?" Thomas thought. He tried to say, *She is my sister. She is my love. She is my pain.*

But the words were leaves. They fell to the ground.

The boy did not know.

The boy picked up the trowel.

"Let me help," the boy said.

Thomas felt the soil. He felt the dark. He felt the cycle turning.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to break the glass.

But the tree is patient. The tree is eternal.

The boy dug.

The memory began to fade.

Elara’s face in the wood became smooth. It became blank. It became clay.

Thomas let go.

He let go.

He let go.

The light returned.

The room was quiet.

The pot was white.

It was the only white thing in the room.