The frost bit at the edges of Thomas’s cloak, a thin layer of ice that cracked under the weight of his own stillness. He sat on the cold stone of the bridge, his back to the river, his hands wrapped around a cup of water that had turned to slush. He did not shiver. He had stopped shivering three days ago, when the hunger had moved from his stomach to his bones and settled there like a guest who refused to leave.

He was a knight, or had been. The title meant nothing now. It was just a word for the shape of the armor he wore, which was rusted and heavy, and for the sword at his hip, which was chipped and dull. He was a man who had walked out of the castle because the lord had laughed at him. Not with malice, but with the easy, dismissive laugh of a man who sees a dog that has barked too long.

You are tired, Thomas. Rest.

Thomas had looked up from his knees. The lord was sitting on the throne, a man of soft hands and a round, flushed face. Behind him stood the other knights, their faces blank, their eyes fixed on the floor.

I am not tired, my lord. I am hungry. I have not eaten in two days.

The lord waved a hand. A servant brought a plate of bread. It was stale, hard as wood. Thomas ate it. He chewed slowly, feeling the dryness scrape his throat. When he finished, he swallowed. The lord smiled.

You eat too much for a man who does nothing.

Thomas stood up. The armor clanked. It was a sound like breaking bones.

I do not do nothing. I watch the gate. I keep the peace.

Peace is quiet, Thomas. You are loud.

He left the hall. He did not run. He walked. He walked until the castle was a dark spot in the trees, and then he kept walking.

Now, on the bridge, he listened to the water. It was black and fast. It did not care about him. It did not care about the hunger, or the cold, or the rust in his armor. It was just water, moving.

A shadow fell over him. It was long and thin, like a spear.

You are cold, Thomas.

He did not turn his head. He knew the voice. It was the voice of the boy who had followed him out of the castle. The boy was named Eli. He was twelve, and he had no father, and he had no home, and he had decided that Thomas was his.

I am fine, Eli.

You are lying.

Thomas turned. Eli was standing there, holding a basket. In the basket were two apples. They were small, red, and shiny.

Eli sat down next to him. He did not ask permission. He placed the basket between them.

Eat.

Thomas looked at the apples. He felt the hunger twist in his gut. It was a sharp, white pain. He reached out and took one.

Where did you get these?

From the orchard.

Which orchard?

The one beyond the river. The one that belongs to no one.

Thomas bit into the apple. It was sweet and cold. Juice ran down his chin. He ate half of it, then stopped. He held the other half out to Eli.

You should eat.

I am not hungry.

You are lying, Eli said. He took the apple. He ate it quickly, as if it might be taken away.

They sat in silence. The wind blew through the trees. The leaves were gone, and the branches looked like black fingers reaching for the sky.

Thomas looked at his hands. They were red and cracked. The skin peeled in small flakes. He thought of the castle. He thought of the lord’s laugh. He thought of the other knights, their faces blank. He had been one of them. He had been silent. He had been still. He had been a part of the machine. Now he was broken. He was a piece of the machine that had fallen off the road.

Do you remember the story? Eli asked.

Which story?

The one about the glass bird.

Thomas closed his eyes. He remembered. It was a story the old nurse had told them when they were children. A bird made of glass, perfect and beautiful. It sang a song that could make men fall in love, or go mad. One day, the bird was dropped. It shattered. The shards were sharp and bright. The people who picked them up were cut. The blood ran down their fingers. The bird was gone. The song was gone. Only the pain remained.

Is that true? Eli asked.

I do not know.

I think it is true.

Thomas opened his eyes. He looked at Eli. The boy’s face was serious. His eyes were dark and deep.

Why do you ask?

Because I am afraid.

Afraid of what?

Of the shards.

Thomas looked at the river. The water was black. It reflected the sky, which was gray and empty.

The shards are in the glass, Thomas said.

No, Eli said. The shards are in us.

Thomas did not answer. He felt the truth of it. He felt it in his chest, a sharp, bright pain. He had been whole, once. He had been a knight. He had had a name, and a place, and a purpose. Now he was broken. He was a collection of shards, held together by habit and hunger.

We should keep walking, Thomas said.

Where to?

I do not know.

Then we will walk until we know.

They stood up. Their legs were stiff. They walked. They walked down the hill, into the forest. The trees were tall and dark. The ground was soft with leaves. The air was cold and smelled of rot.

They walked for hours. The sun went down. The stars came out. They were bright and cold.

Thomas felt a presence. It was not a person. It was a feeling. A weight. He stopped walking.

What is it? Eli asked.

I do not know.

They stood still. The forest was silent. No birds. No insects. Only the wind, moving through the branches.

A light appeared. It was small, and blue. It was floating in the air, in front of them. It was like a flame, but it did not burn. It did not move. It just was.

Thomas reached out. His hand passed through it. He felt a coldness, a deep, ancient cold.

Do not touch it, Eli said.

I am not touching it.

It is watching you.

Thomas looked at the light. It was not looking at him. It was looking through him. He felt a sense of being seen, of being known. He felt his hunger, his pain, his shame. He felt the laugh of the lord. He felt the silence of the knights. He felt the breaking.

The light moved. It drifted toward him. He stepped back.

It is a spirit, Eli said.

No, Thomas said. It is a memory.

The light touched his face. He closed his eyes. He felt a surge of knowledge. It was not information. It was experience. He felt the pain of the bird, shattering. He felt the blood running down the shards. He felt the song, stopping.

He opened his eyes. The light was gone.

Thomas stood alone. Eli was gone. The forest was empty.

Thomas looked at his hands. They were covered in blood. He did not know where it came from. He did not know when it had started. He looked at the ground. There were shards of glass, scattered in the dirt. They were small, and bright, and sharp.

He picked one up. It was a piece of a mirror. In it, he saw his face. It was old. It was tired. It was broken.

He dropped it. The glass shattered further.

He walked. He walked through the forest, through the dark, through the cold. He walked until the forest ended, and the fields began. The fields were white with snow. The sky was gray.

He walked until he reached the edge of the world. Or what felt like the edge of the world. There was a wall. It was made of stone, and it was high, and it was old. It was the wall of the castle.

Thomas stood before the wall. He looked up. The castle was dark. There were no lights in the windows. It was dead.

He looked at his hands. The blood was dry. It was black. He looked at the shards in his pocket. They were cold.

He reached out and touched the wall. It was cold and hard. He felt the presence. It was there, in the stone. It was the memory of the bird. It was the memory of the song.

He closed his eyes. He let the knowledge in. He let the pain in. He did not fight it. He did not try to conquer it. He let it break him. He let it shatter him.

He felt the shards in his chest. They were moving. They were cutting. He gasped. He fell to his knees.

The gate opened.

A man walked out. It was the lord. He was wearing a cloak of black fur. His face was pale. His eyes were red.

Thomas, the lord said. His voice was quiet.

My lord, Thomas said.

Come in.

Thomas looked at the lord. He saw the pain in his eyes. He saw the fear. He saw the breaking.

The lord is broken, too, Thomas thought.

Thomas stood up. He walked toward the gate. He walked into the castle.

The lord led him to the throne room. It was empty. The throne was empty. The other knights were gone.

Sit, the lord said.

Thomas sat. He sat on the floor. He did not sit on the throne.

The lord sat on the floor, next to him. They sat in the dark.

I am tired, the lord said.

I know, Thomas said.

I am hungry.

I know.

The lord looked at Thomas. He saw the blood on his hands. He saw the shards in his pocket.

You are broken, the lord said.

I am, Thomas said.

We are all broken.

Thomas looked at the lord. He saw the truth. The lord was not a king. He was a man. He was a man who had been broken, and had tried to hide it. He had tried to laugh. He had tried to be strong. But the shards had cut him, too.

Thomas reached into his pocket. He took out the shards. He held them out to the lord.

The lord took them. He held them in his hand. He did not cut himself. He just held them.

We are the shards, Thomas said.

Yes, the lord said.

And we are the glass.

Yes.

And we are the song.

Yes.

They sat in the dark. They held the shards. They did not speak. They did not move. They were still. They were quiet. They were together.

Outside, the wind blew. The snow fell. The world was cold and dark. But inside, they were still. They were broken, but they were together. And that was enough.

Thomas closed his eyes. He felt the pain. He felt the cold. He felt the hunger. But he also felt the presence. He felt the memory. He felt the song, stopping. And in the stopping, there was peace.

He was not a knight anymore. He was not a man. He was a shard. And he was whole.