The fog clings to the stone. It has been there for centuries. It will be there when the sea takes the cliffs. You are standing in the hall. The air is cold. It smells of damp wool and old wood. You are a boy. You are young. Your heart beats fast. It is a drum. It is a bird. It is afraid.

You do not know why you are here. You know only that you must go. The house is yours. The house is not yours. The house is a beast. It breathes in the dark.

You walk down the corridor. The floorboards creak. They are old. They are tired. They hold your weight. They do not want to. The wallpaper is peeling. It hangs in strips. Like skin. Like meat. You look away. You cannot look.

At the end of the hall, there is a door. It is oak. It is heavy. It has no handle. You push it. It resists. You push harder. Your hands are cold. Your breath is white. The door opens.

You are in the library. The books are tall. They are black. They are silent. They watch you. You know this. You have always known this. The books are not books. They are eyes. They are waiting for you to read. They are waiting for you to speak.

You sit in the chair. It is leather. It is cracked. It smells of smoke. You look at the table. There is a portrait. It is small. It is framed in gold. The gold is faded. The face in the portrait is yours.

You stare at it. It stares back. The eyes are dark. The mouth is thin. The face is pale. It is a mirror. It is a ghost. It is you. But not you. It is you, before. It is you, after. It is you, always.

You reach for the frame. Your hand shakes. The fingers are long. The nails are short. You touch the glass. It is cold. It is hard. It is alive. You pull your hand back. It hurts. It burns.

You stand up. You walk to the window. The glass is dirty. You wipe it. You see the garden. The garden is dead. The grass is gray. The trees are bare. The branches reach out. They are hands. They are begging. They are cursing.

You turn around. The portrait is gone.

You scream. No sound comes out. The room is empty. The books are gone. The chair is gone. The table is gone. There is only the floor. There is only the dust. There is only the dark.

You are in the cellar.

You do not know how you got here. The stairs were long. They were steep. You fell. You crawled. You are on the floor. The stones are wet. The air is thick. It is hard to breathe. It is hard to think.

You see a light. It is small. It is yellow. It is in the corner. It is a candle. It is burning. It is alone.

You crawl toward it. The floor is slick. Your knees bleed. The pain is dull. The pain is clear. You are close. You are closer.

The light is not a candle. It is a face.

It is a woman. She is old. Her hair is white. Her eyes are black. Her skin is gray. She is sitting on the floor. She is holding a mirror. She is looking into the mirror. She is looking at you.

You stop. You are afraid. You are not afraid. You are curious. You are hungry.

She speaks. Her voice is dry. It is like leaves. It is like wind.

"You are late," she says.

You do not answer. You cannot. Your mouth is full of dust.

"I have waited," she says. "I have waited for you. I have waited for many. I have waited for all."

"Who are you?" you ask. Your voice is a whisper. It is a mouse. It is a thread.

"I am the keeper," she says. "I am the door. I am the lock. I am the key."

"I am no one," you say.

"Everyone is someone," she says. "Everyone is a name. Everyone is a face. You have a face. You have a name. You have a past. You have a future."

"I do not want it," you say.

"You cannot not want it," she says. "You are here. That is enough. You are here. That is everything."

She holds up the mirror. The mirror is small. The mirror is round. The mirror is clear.

"Look," she says.

You look.

You see yourself. But you are not a boy. You are old. Your face is wrinkled. Your hair is white. Your eyes are tired. You are the man in the portrait. You are the man who died. You are the man who came back.

You look away. You look at the floor. You look at your hands. Your hands are old. Your hands are dry. Your hands are dead.

"No," you say.

"Yes," she says.

"You are lying," you say.

"I am telling the truth," she says. "The truth is a circle. The truth is a wheel. The truth turns. The truth turns. The truth turns."

"I do not believe you," you say.

"You do not need to believe me," she says. "You need to see. You need to accept. You need to let go."

"Let go of what?" you ask.

"Let go of the past," she says. "Let go of the self. Let go of the name. Let go of the fear."

"I am afraid," you say.

"Good," she says. "Fear is a guide. Fear is a light. Fear shows you the way. Fear shows you the end."

You stand up. Your legs are weak. Your body is heavy. You are moving. You are moving toward her. You are moving toward the mirror.

You stop. You look at her. You look at the mirror. You look at yourself.

You see the boy. You see the old man. You see the girl. You see the stranger. You see the monster. You see the saint. You see the nothing. You see the everything.

You understand.

The house is not a house. The house is a body. The house is a soul. The house is you. The house is everyone. The house is the world. The world is a cage. The cage is a wheel. The wheel is a trap.

You cannot escape. You do not want to escape.

You want to stay.

You want to be the keeper.

You want to be the door.

You want to be the lock.

You want to be the key.

You walk to the mirror. You take it from her hand. Your hand is steady. Your hand is strong. Your hand is old.

You look into the glass.

The girl is gone. The old man is gone. The boy is gone.

There is only the light.

There is only the dark.

There is only you.

You break the mirror.

The glass shatters. The sound is loud. The sound is sharp. The sound is final.

The light goes out.

The woman is gone.

The cellar is empty.

You are alone.

You are in the hall.

The fog clings to the stone. It has been there for centuries. It will be there when the sea takes the cliffs.

You are standing in the hall. The air is cold. It smells of damp wool and old wood.

You are a boy. You are young. Your heart beats fast. It is a drum. It is a bird. It is afraid.

You do not know why you are here. You know only that you must go. The house is yours. The house is not yours. The house is a beast. It breathes in the dark.

You walk down the corridor. The floorboards creak. They are old. They are tired. They hold your weight. They do not want to.

At the end of the hall, there is a door. It is oak. It is heavy. It has no handle.

You push it.

It resists.

You push harder.

Your hands are cold.

Your breath is white.

The door opens.

You are in the library.

The books are tall.

They are black.

They are silent.

They watch you.

You know this.

You have always known this.

The books are not books.

They are eyes.

They are waiting for you to read.

They are waiting for you to speak.

You sit in the chair.

It is leather.

It is cracked.

It smells of smoke.

You look at the table.

There is a portrait.

It is small.

It is framed in gold.

The gold is faded.

The face in the portrait is yours.

You stare at it.

It stares back.

The eyes are dark.

The mouth is thin.

The face is pale.

It is a mirror.

It is a ghost.

It is you.

But not you.

It is you, before.

It is you, after.

It is you, always.

You reach for the frame.

Your hand shakes.

The fingers are long.

The nails are short.

You touch the glass.

It is cold.

It is hard.

It is alive.

You pull your hand back.

It hurts.

It burns.

You stand up.

You walk to the window.

The glass is dirty.

You wipe it.

You see the garden.

The garden is dead.

The grass is gray.

The trees are bare.

The branches reach out.

They are hands.

They are begging.

They are cursing.

You turn around.

The portrait is gone.

You scream.

No sound comes out.

The room is empty.

The books are gone.

The chair is gone.

The table is gone.

There is only the floor.

There is only the dust.

There is only the dark.

You are in the cellar.

You do not know how you got here.

The stairs were long.

They were steep.

You fell.

You crawled.

You are on the floor.

The stones are wet.

The air is thick.

It is hard to breathe.

It is hard to think.

You see a light.

It is small.

It is yellow.

It is in the corner.

It is a candle.

It is burning.

It is alone.

You crawl toward it.

The floor is slick.

Your knees bleed.

The pain is dull.

The pain is clear.

You are close.

You are closer.

The light is not a candle.

It is a face.

It is a woman.

She is old.

Her hair is white.

Her eyes are black.

Her skin is gray.

She is sitting on the floor.

She is holding a mirror.

She is looking into the mirror.

She is looking at you.

You stop.

You are afraid.

You are not afraid.

You are curious.

You are hungry.

She speaks.

Her voice is dry.

It is like leaves.

It is like wind.

"You are late," she says.

You do not answer.

You cannot.

Your mouth is full of dust.

"I have waited," she says.

"I have waited for you."

"I have waited for many."

"I have waited for all."

"Who are you?" you ask.

Your voice is a whisper.

It is a mouse.

It is a thread.

"I am the keeper," she says.

"I am the door."

"I am the lock."

"I am the key."

"I am no one," you say.

"Everyone is someone," she says.

"Everyone is a name."

"Everyone is a face."

"You have a face."

"You have a name."

"You have a past."

"You have a future."

"I do not want it," you say.

"You cannot not want it," she says.

"You are here."

"That is enough."

"You are here."

"That is everything."

She holds up the mirror.

The mirror is small.

The mirror is round.

The mirror is clear.

"Look," she says.

You look.

You see yourself.

But you are not a boy.

You are old.

Your face is wrinkled.

Your hair is white.

Your eyes are tired.

You are the man in the portrait.

You are the man who died.

You are the man who came back.

You look away.

You look at the floor.

You look at your hands.

Your hands are old.

Your hands are dry.

Your hands are dead.

"No," you say.

"Yes," she says.

"You are lying," you say.

"I am telling the truth," she says.

"The truth is a circle."

"The truth is a wheel."

"The truth turns."

"The truth turns."

"The truth turns."

"I do not believe you," you say.

"You do not need to believe me," she says.

"You need to see."

"You need to accept."

"You need to let go."

"Let go of what?" you ask.

"Let go of the past," she says.

"Let go of the self."

"Let go of the name."

"Let go of the fear."

"I am afraid," you say.

"Good," she says.

"Fear is a guide."

"Fear is a light."

"Fear shows you the way."

"Fear shows you the end."

You stand up.

Your legs are weak.

Your body is heavy.

You are moving.

You are moving toward her.

You are moving toward the mirror.

You stop.

You look at her.

You look at the mirror.

You look at yourself.

You see the boy.

You see the old man.

You see the girl.

You see the stranger.

You see the monster.

You see the saint.

You see the nothing.

You see the everything.

You understand.

The house is not a house.

The house is a body.

The house is a soul.

The house is you.

The house is everyone.

The house is the world.

The world is a cage.

The cage is a wheel.

The wheel is a trap.

You cannot escape.

You do not want to escape.

You want to stay.

You want to be the keeper.

You want to be the door.

You want to be the lock.

You want to be the key.

You walk to the mirror.

You take it from her hand.

Your hand is steady.

Your hand is strong.

Your hand is old.

You look into the glass.

The girl is gone.

The old man is gone.

The boy is gone.

There is only the light.

There is only the dark.

There is only you.

You break the mirror.

The glass shatters.

The sound is loud.

The sound is sharp.

The sound is final.

The light goes out.

The woman is gone.

The cellar is empty.

You are alone.

You are in the hall.

The fog clings to the stone.

It has been there for centuries.

It will be there when the sea takes the cliffs.

You are standing in the hall.

The air is cold.

It smells of damp wool and old wood.

You are a boy.

You are young.

Your heart beats fast.

It is a drum.

It is a bird.

It is afraid.

You do not know why you are here.

You know only that you must go.

The house is yours.

The house is not yours.

The house is a beast.

It breathes in the dark.

You walk down the corridor.

The floorboards creak.

They are old.

They are tired.

They hold your weight.

They do not want to.

At the end of the hall, there is a door.

It is oak.

It is heavy.

It has no handle.

You push it.

It resists.

You push harder.

Your hands are cold.

Your breath is white.

The door opens.

You are in the library.

The books are tall.

They are black.

They are silent.

They watch you.

You know this.

You have always known this.

The books are not books.

They are eyes.

They are waiting for you to read.

They are waiting for you to speak.

You sit in the chair.

It is leather.

It is cracked.

It smells of smoke.

You look at the table.

There is a portrait.

It is small.

It is framed in gold.

The gold is faded.

The face in the portrait is yours.

You stare at it.

It stares back.

The eyes are dark.

The mouth is thin.

The face is pale.

It is a mirror.

It is a ghost.

It is you.

But not you.

It is you, before.

It is you, after.

It is you, always.

You reach for the frame.

Your hand shakes.

The fingers are long.

The nails are short.

You touch the glass.

It is cold.

It is hard.

It is alive.

You pull your hand back.

It hurts.

It burns.

You stand up.

You walk to the window.

The glass is dirty.

You wipe it.

You see the garden.

The garden is dead.

The grass is gray.

The trees are bare.

The branches reach out.

They are hands.

They are begging.

They are cursing.

You turn around.

The portrait is gone.

You scream.

No sound comes out.

The room is empty.

The books are gone.

The chair is gone.

The table is gone.

There is only the floor.

There is only the dust.

There is only the dark.