You hold the gloves. They are not white. They are not black. They are the color of a bruise that has not yet faded, a pale, sickly yellow that stains the skin of your hands. The wool is thin. It frays at the knuckles. You pull them tighter. The cold is a living thing here. It breathes in the hollow of your throat. It waits in the corners of the room.

"Is it time?" the boy asks. He is small. He is quiet. His name is Thomas, though he does not say it. He stands by the window. The glass is fogged. Outside, the world is gone. There is only the mist. A thick, grey soup that swallows the hills. It swallows the trees. It swallows the sky.

"Yes," you say. Your voice is dry. Like old leaves. "We go now."

Thomas turns. His eyes are wide. They are dark pools. They reflect the candlelight. "Do we have to?"

"You must."

"Must?" He laughs. It is a short, sharp sound. A bark. "I am a boy. I do not have to do anything."

You look at the gloves. The wool is worn. It has lost its shape. It has lost its warmth. You bought them in the village. The woman who sold them had hands like roots. She did not speak. She only pointed. You paid with a silver coin. The coin is in your pocket. It is cold against your thigh.

"We go," you repeat.

Thomas steps forward. He looks at your hands. He looks at the gloves. "They are ugly," he says.

"They are necessary."

"They are rags."

"They are the path."

He does not understand. He is a child. He does not know the weight of things. He does not know that the world is thin here. That the walls between what is and what is not are made of paper. And paper tears.

You pick up the lantern. The flame is blue. It does not flicker. It burns steady. It burns cold. You light it. The room fills with a pale, ghostly light. Shadows stretch. They lengthen. They reach for you.

"Come," you say.

Thomas follows. He steps over the threshold. The air changes. It is heavier. It tastes of iron. It tastes of rain.

You walk. The floor is stone. It is smooth. It is wet. Your boots make no sound. Thomas’s feet are bare. He does not shiver. He should shiver. The cold is in his bones. But he does not shiver. He looks at you. He watches your hands. He watches the gloves.

"Why do you wear them?" he asks.

"They keep me safe."

"From what?"

"From the dark."

"The dark is everywhere," Thomas says. "I can feel it. It is in the walls. It is in the floor. It is in the air."

You say nothing. You walk faster. The lantern swings. The light dances. It catches on the edges of things. On the corners of the room. On the dust that hangs in the air like snow.

The room ends. There is a door. It is made of wood. It is black. It has no handle. You push it. It does not move. You push harder. Your arms burn. The gloves dig into your hands. The wool tears. The skin beneath is raw.

"Help me," you say.

Thomas steps forward. He places his hands on the door. He is small. His hands are small. But he pushes. He pushes with all his weight. The door creaks. It groans. It opens.

The light spills out. It is white. It is blinding. It is silent.

You step through. Thomas steps through.

The world is different. The air is still. The ground is soft. It is like moss. It is like silk. It is like nothing you have ever touched. The sky is above. It is not blue. It is not grey. It is a deep, endless violet. It has no stars. It has no moon. It has only the light. The light comes from everywhere. The light comes from nowhere.

Thomas looks up. His mouth is open. "It is beautiful," he whispers.

"It is empty," you say.

"No," he says. "It is full. It is full of light."

You look at the gloves. They are bright now. The pale yellow is gone. They are white. They are pure. They shine. They shine like the light in the sky.

"Take them off," Thomas says.

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"Because if I do, I will vanish."

Thomas frowns. He looks at your hands. He looks at the light. "I do not think you will vanish. I think you will be seen."

You hesitate. The light is warm. It is gentle. It is kind. It does not hurt. It does not burn. It only touches. It touches your face. It touches your chest. It touches your soul.

You look at Thomas. He is smiling. He is not afraid. He is not cold. He is free.

"Take them off," he says again.

You look at the gloves. They are worn. They are frayed. They are old. They are the only thing you have left. They are the only thing that has kept you safe. They are the only thing that has kept you alive.

You reach for the wrist. Your fingers tremble. The wool is tight. It is constricting. It is choking.

"Thomas," you say.

"Yes?"

"If I take them off... what happens to you?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. I am here. I am with you."

You pull. The glove tears. The wool snaps. The skin is exposed. The air hits your hand. It is cold. It is sharp. It is real.

You pull the other glove. It tears. It snaps. The skin is exposed. The air hits your hand. It is cold. It is sharp. It is real.

You drop the gloves. They fall to the soft ground. They dissolve. They turn to dust. They turn to light.

You look at your hands. They are bare. They are pale. They are yours.

Thomas steps closer. He takes your hand. His fingers are warm. His fingers are strong. He holds you. He holds you tight.

"I see you," he says.

You look at the sky. The violet deepens. It becomes black. It becomes night. But the light remains. The light is in your hands. The light is in your eyes. The light is in your heart.

You are not safe. You are not hidden. You are not protected.

You are seen.

You are here.

You are real.

The wind picks up. It is gentle. It is soft. It blows through your hair. It blows through the grass. It blows through the air.

Thomas lets go of your hand. He steps back. He looks at you. He looks at the ground where the gloves were.

"They are gone," he says.

"Yes," you say.

"Are you afraid?"

"No," you say.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

He nods. He turns. He walks away. He walks into the light. He walks into the dark. He walks into the mist.

You stand still. You look at your hands. They are empty. They are open. They are ready.

You take a step. You take another step. You walk. You walk into the light. You walk into the dark. You walk into the mist.

The world is vast. The world is silent. The world is yours.

You are not alone. You are not lost. You are not broken.

You are free.

The light fades. The dark comes. The night is long. The night is cold.

But you are warm.

You are alive.

You are here.