The glass was thin.

Margaret held it up to the light. The veins ran white and brittle through the pane. A spider’s leg. A crack in the ice. She turned it over in her hands. The cold bit into her skin.

The house breathed.

It settled. It groaned. The old house in the Holloway family had always done that. A long, shuddering exhalation. Margaret liked it. It made her feel small. It made her feel held.

She placed the shard on the table.

It sat there. Silent. Sharp.

"Did you do this?"

The voice came from the hallway. David. He stood in the doorway. He wore his work shirt. The collar was undone. His face was pale.

"I found it," Margaret said.

"Found it."

David stepped into the room. His shoes squeaked on the wood.

"Where?"

"By the window."

He looked at the glass. He did not touch it.

"It’s just a shard."

"It’s a warning."

David laughed. It was a dry sound. A crackle.

"Margaret. It’s a piece of window glass."

She nodded.

She picked it up again.

The edge was jagged. It caught the light. A flash of gold.

She put it in her pocket.

David watched her. His eyes were wide.

"Why are you keeping it?"

"I want to see how it changes."

"Glass doesn’t change."

"Everything changes."

He turned away.

He walked to the door.

He left.

The house breathed again.

Margaret sat down.

She took the glass out of her pocket.

She held it to her ear.

She listened.

There was a sound.

A low hum.

A vibration.

It was the sound of the house settling.

It was the sound of the earth shifting.

It was the sound of time.

She closed her eyes.

She felt the hum in her teeth.

It was a familiar feeling.

It was the feeling of being watched.

She opened her eyes.

The glass was darker now.

The veins were red.

She dropped it.

It shattered on the floor.

A dozen pieces.

A hundred splinters.

She looked at the mess.

She did not move.

She sat there.

She waited.

The door opened.

David came back.

He saw the glass.

He saw her face.

He stopped.

"What happened?"

"I dropped it."

He stepped over the shards.

He stood in front of her.

"Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Then why are you crying?"

She was not crying.

She was smiling.

It was a small smile.

A secret smile.

"I’m fine," she said.

David looked at her.

He looked at the glass.

He looked at her again.

He saw something in her eyes.

It was a light.

It was a gold light.

It was the light from the glass.

It was in her pupils.

It was in her veins.

He stepped back.

His hand went to his chest.

He gasped.

"Margaret."

"Yes?"

"What are you?"

She stood up.

She walked to him.

She put her hand on his cheek.

Her hand was cold.

Her fingers were sharp.

"You know what I am," she said.

"I don’t know anything."

"You know."

He pushed her hand away.

He backed against the wall.

"Get away from me."

"I can’t."

"Why?"

"Because I am the house."

He laughed again.

It was a wet sound.

A gurgling sound.

"I’m not crazy."

"No," she said. "You’re not."

She moved closer.

He slid down the wall.

He sat on the floor.

He looked at the shards.

They were moving.

They were crawling.

They were gathering.

They formed a shape.

A human shape.

A woman’s shape.

It was her shape.

It was his shape.

It was their shape.

It was the shape of the house.

David looked at Margaret.

He looked at the glass figure.

He looked at Margaret.

He saw it.

The gold light.

It was in her eyes.

It was in the glass.

It was in the house.

It was in him.

He realized then.

He had never been separate.

He was part of the structure.

He was a beam.

He was a nail.

He was the mortar.

He was the stone.

He was the foundation.

And Margaret.

Margaret was the window.

She was the view.

She was the light.

And the light was breaking.

The glass figure reached out a hand.

It was a hand of shards.

It was a hand of ice.

It was a hand of time.

It touched David’s face.

He felt the cold.

He felt the sharpness.

He felt the end.

He did not scream.

He did not run.

He accepted it.

He knew it was coming.

He had always known.

He just forgot.

The house breathed.

It was a final breath.

A long, slow, rattling breath.

The walls cracked.

The floor split.

The roof collapsed.

But they did not fall.

They held.

They held because they were one.

They were a single organism.

They were a single mind.

They were a single love.

A destructive love.

A consuming love.

A golden love.

David looked at Margaret.

His eyes were empty.

His mouth was open.

He was smiling.

She was smiling.

The glass was everywhere.

It was in their hair.

It was in their clothes.

It was in their skin.

It was in their blood.

It was in their souls.

It was the only thing that mattered.

It was the only thing that remained.

The light flickered.

The light died.

The house was silent.

The house was still.

The house was whole.

And in the center of the silence, in the heart of the stillness, in the core of the whole, there was a single shard of glass.

It sat on the floor.

It was whole.

It was perfect.

It was golden.

It was alive.

It was waiting.

It was watching.

It was remembering.

It was forgetting.

It was beginning.

The end was the beginning.

The beginning was the end.

The circle was closed.

The loop was complete.

The cycle was eternal.

The house breathed.

The house slept.

The house dreamed.

And in the dream, the glass shattered.

And in the shattering, it was made whole.

And in the wholeness, it was broken.

And in the breaking, it was made new.

And in the new, it was old.

And in the old, it was young.

And in the young, it was dead.

And in the dead, it was born.

It was the only way.

It was the only truth.

It was the only love.

It was the golden harbor.

It was the only shore.

It was the only home.

It was the only life.

It was the only death.

It was the only thing.

And it was enough.

It was more than enough.

It was everything.

It was nothing.

It was all.

It was none.

It was Margaret.

It was David.

It was the house.

It was the glass.

It was the light.

It was the dark.

It was the sound.

It was the silence.

It was the breath.

It was the hold.

It was the break.

It was the fix.

It was the crack.

It was the heal.

It was the pain.

It was the joy.

It was the fear.

It was the peace.

It was the end.

It was the start.

It was the now.

It was the then.

It was the here.

It was the there.

It was the you.

It was the me.

It was the we.

It was the they.

It was the us.

It was the us.

It was the us.

It was the us.