The fire came first. Then the hunger. Then the taste of the smoke.

You remember the smell. It is not just ash. It is wet rot. It is the copper tang of blood. It is the thick, sweet scent of the honeycomb you kept in the cellar. You remember holding the jar. You remember the bees dying on your fingers. They did not sting. They just fell. One by one. Like dust. Like snow. Like the end of the world.

You are in the house. The house is burning. The walls are breathing. You can hear the timbers cracking. They sound like bones breaking. You are in the kitchen. The table is overturned. The plates are shattered. You are sitting on the floor. You are eating the wall.

Yes. The wall.

It is not plaster. It is not brick. It is flesh. It is pale and soft and warm. It tastes of salt and old wine. You chew. You swallow. It goes down easy. It fills the hollow in your chest. The hollow where your heart used to be. The hollow where your love used to be.

Who was it?

Margaret.

You forget her name for a moment. It feels like a stone in your shoe. You pick it up. You look at it. It is smooth. It is round. It is warm. Margaret.

You loved her. You loved her with a fire that burned the roof off your soul. You loved her until it hurt. You loved her until it was all you had. You loved her until you were nothing else.

She was your sister.

No. That is wrong. She was not your sister. She was your wife. She was your mother. She was your god. She was the only thing that was real.

The fire is closer now. The heat is on your face. It dries your tears. It cracks your lips. You do not care. You are busy eating. You are eating the doorframe. The wood is sweet. It tastes of summer. It tastes of the garden.

The garden.

You remember the garden. It was behind the house. The grass was high. The flowers were wild. They grew in tangles. They grew in knots. They grew in pain. You planted them. You watered them. You watched them grow. You watched them die.

Margaret loved the garden. She spent hours there. She knelt in the dirt. She pulled the weeds. She sang to the plants. She spoke to them. She told them secrets. She told them about you. She told them how you looked. She told them how you felt.

She told them you were a monster.

You were not a monster. You were a man. You were a good man. You were a loving man. You just loved too much. You loved too hard. You loved too deep.

The love was a sickness. The love was a plague. The love was a fire.

The fire is inside you now. It is in your blood. It is in your breath. It is in the food you eat. The food is the house. The house is the love. The love is the fire. The fire is the end.

You stop eating. You look at your hands. They are stained. They are red. They are sticky. You look at the wall. It is gone. You have eaten it all. You have eaten the door. You have eaten the window. You have eaten the roof.

The house is open. The sky is visible. The sky is black. The stars are out. The stars are watching. They are cold. They are distant. They do not care.

You stand up. Your legs are weak. Your knees are shaking. You walk to the center of the room. The floor is bare earth. You step in it. It is soft. It is warm. It is alive.

You feel something under your feet. It is hard. It is round. It is cold.

You dig. You dig with your fingers. You dig with your nails. You dig until the blood runs. You dig until the bones show.

You find it.

It is a bottle. It is green. It is old. It is full.

You lift it. It is heavy. It is warm. It hums. It sings. It is the voice of Margaret.

You open it.

The smell hits you. It is not honey. It is not wine. It is the smell of her skin. It is the smell of her hair. It is the smell of her breath. It is the smell of her life.

You pour it into your mouth.

It burns. It tastes of iron. It tastes of ash. It tastes of truth.

You remember.

You remember the night. You remember the argument. You remember the words. You remember the silence.

You loved her. She loved you. But the love was too big. The love was too heavy. The love was a weight that crushed the house. The love was a weight that crushed you.

You tried to kill her.

You did not kill her. You killed yourself. You killed the part of you that could feel. You killed the part of you that could speak. You killed the part of you that could hope.

You drank the poison. You drank the love. You drank the end.

But you did not die.

The fire took the body. The fire took the flesh. The fire took the blood.

The soul remained.

The soul became the house.

The house became the food.

The food became you.

You are the house. You are the fire. You are the hunger. You are the love.

You are the golden greenhouse.

The glass is thin. The glass is fragile. The glass is broken.

You are inside. You are outside. You are both.

The fire is gone. The smoke is gone. The ash is gone.

You are alone.

You are never alone.

Margaret is with you. She is in the walls. She is in the floor. She is in the air. She is in the light.

She is in the bottle.

You hold the bottle. You close your eyes. You listen.

You hear her voice.

It is soft. It is sweet. It is sad.

She says, "It is over."

You say, "No."

She says, "It must be."

You say, "I cannot."

She says, "You must."

You shake your head. You cannot let go. You cannot let go of the pain. You cannot let go of the love. You cannot let go of her.

The bottle is empty. The glass is in your hand. The glass is sharp. It cuts your palm. The blood drips. The blood hits the floor. The floor drinks it. The floor grows.

Vines creep up the walls. Green leaves. White flowers. They bloom in the dark. They bloom in the smoke. They bloom in the pain.

The garden returns. The garden is inside. The garden is you.

You are the plant. You are the root. You are the seed.

You grow. You stretch. You reach for the light. The light is cold. The light is far.

You are not free.

Freedom is a cage. Freedom is a choice. Freedom is a pain.

You chose this. You chose the house. You chose the fire. You chose the love.

You are the prisoner. You are the jailer. You are the crime.

The vines tighten around your body. They bind your arms. They bind your legs. They bind your neck.

You struggle. You scream. You bite. You tear.

It does not matter.

The vines are part of you. The vines are your love. The vines are your life.

You stop struggling. You lie down. You lie on the soft earth. You close your eyes.

You feel the pulse of the house. You feel the beat of the fire. You feel the breath of the wind.

You are one. You are whole. You are complete.

The tragedy is not that you are trapped. The tragedy is that you are happy.

The happiness is a lie. The happiness is a poison. The happiness is the end.

You wait for the morning. The morning does not come. The night does not end.

The stars are still watching. The stars are still cold. The stars are still distant.

But you are not cold. You are warm. You are alive. You are in love.

You are the golden greenhouse.

The glass is broken. The light is in. The light is in.

You open your eyes.

The room is gone. The house is gone. The fire is gone.

You are in a field. The grass is high. The flowers are wild.

You are standing. You are naked. You are free.

Or are you?

You look at your hands. They are green. They are leafy. They are vine.

You look at the ground. It is soft. It is warm. It is alive.

You look at the sky. It is blue. It is clear. It is empty.

You are free.

The freedom is a prison. The prison is a garden. The garden is a grave.

You laugh. You cry. You sing.

You are Margaret.

You are the man.

You are the house.

You are the fire.

You are the food.

You are the hunger.

You are the love.

You are the end.

The sun rises. The light is bright. The light is hot.

You close your eyes. You let the light in. You let the pain in. You let the love in.

You are the golden greenhouse.

The glass is thin. The glass is fragile. The glass is broken.

You are inside. You are outside. You are both.

The story ends. The story never ends.

You are here. You are always here.

You are the golden greenhouse.