You hold the hare. Its ribs show through the fur like the wires in a broken radio. It is still. It has been still for a long time. You do not know how long. Time is a strange thing in the Hollow. It pools. It leaks.

"Is it dead?" asks the boy.

He stands in the doorway of the stone hall. His name is Thomas. He is seven. He has dirt under his fingernails and a look on his face that says he has seen things that do not belong to his age.

"Yes," you say.

"Then why do you keep it?"

You look at the hare. It is grey. The fur is matted. It is not beautiful anymore. When you found it, it was white. It moved like a thought. Now it is only meat and bone.

"It is a memory," you say.

Thomas steps closer. He smells the damp stone. He smells the rot. He does not look away. That is the first thing that surprises you. He does not look away.

"Memories rot," he says.

You want to hit him. You want to shake him. You want to tell him that you are the Head Warden of the Hollow. You want to tell him that you have saved this place. You want to tell him that the magic here is real. But you cannot. Your voice is thin. It is the voice of a man who has been crying for days.

"Put it down," he says.

"I will not."

"Then I will call the others."

You look at the door. Beyond the door is the garden. Beyond the garden is the village. Beyond the village is the world. The world does not care about the Hollow. The world does not care about the white hare.

"Go away, Thomas."

"I am your brother."

The word hangs in the air. It is a blade. It is a gift. You hate it. You love it. It is the only true thing you have.

He does not go away. He steps into the room. He picks up a stick. He pokes the hare. The hare does not move.

"It is a toy," Thomas says.

"No."

"It is a lie."

You feel the heat rise in your chest. You feel the shame. It is a cold shame. It sits in your stomach. It is heavy.

"Sit down," you say. Your voice is low. It is dangerous.

Thomas sits. He sits on the floor. He crosses his legs. He looks at you. He waits.

You sit on the chair. The chair is old. The wood is cracked. You hold the hare in your lap. You stroke its fur. The fur is rough. It is not soft. It has never been soft. You have always known this. You have always known that the white was a trick. A trick of the light. A trick of the heart.

"Tell me about the start," Thomas says.

"What start?"

"The start of the Hollow."

You laugh. It is a dry sound. Like leaves skittering on pavement.

"We were children," you say. "We were young. We found the gate."

"I know."

"We opened it."

"I know."

"And the magic came out."

"I know."

"Did it hurt?"

Thomas shrugs. "I do not remember."

You remember. You remember the pain. It was a fire in the veins. It was a song in the bones. It was so beautiful that you wept. You wept for an hour. You did not know why. You only knew that you must keep it. You must guard it. You must make it last.

"It lasted," you say.

"For a while," Thomas says.

"For a long while."

"It is gone now."

You look at the hare. It is still. It is grey. It is dead.

"I know," you say.

Thomas stands up. He walks to the window. The glass is dirty. Outside, the rain is falling. The rain is grey. The sky is grey. The world is grey.

"Who else knows?" he asks.

"Who else knows what?"

"That it is gone."

You look at him. He is your brother. He is your mirror. He sees you. He sees the hollowness in your eyes. He sees the fear in your hands.

"Everyone knows," you say. "They just do not say it."

"They are afraid of you."

"I am the Head Warden."

"You are a child playing with a dead animal."

The words hit you. They are true. They are cruel. They are the truth. You cannot argue with the truth. You can only hide from it.

"Get out," you say.

"I am not leaving."

"Get out."

"I will stay."

You stand up. You grab the hare. You throw it across the room. It lands on the floor. It does not move. It is just a pile of fur.

"Are you done?" Thomas asks.

You are not done. You are never done. You are a machine. You are a guard. You are the wall.

"I am the warden," you say.

"You are a fool," Thomas says.

He walks to the door. He opens it. The cold air rushes in. It smells of wet earth. It smells of life.

"Come with me," he says.

"I will not."

"Then I will tell them."

"Tell them what?"

"That it is over."

You look at the door. You look at the floor. You look at the hare.

"Come here," you say.

Thomas stops. He turns around. He waits.

"Come here," you say.

He walks back. He stops in front of you. He is small. He is brave. He is your brother.

"I am tired," you say.

"I know," he says.

"I am so tired."

"I know."

You look at him. You see yourself in his eyes. You see the boy you were. You see the boy you wanted to be. You see the boy you could not be.

"I am sorry," you say.

"For what?"

"For everything."

Thomas nods. He does not say it is okay. He does not say it is fine. He knows it is not fine. He knows it is broken.

He reaches out. He takes the hare from your hand. You let him. Your fingers are empty. Your hand is open.

He holds the hare. He looks at it. He looks at you.

"We will bury it," he says.

"Yes."

"In the garden."

"Yes."

"Tomorrow."

"Yes."

"Tonight we will sleep."

"Yes."

Thomas puts the hare on the table. He walks to the door. He stops.

"Do you love me?" he asks.

The question is simple. It is a trap. It is a test.

"Yes," you say.

"Prove it."

You look at him. You do not have to prove it. But you want to. You want to give him something. You want to give him the truth.

"I will leave," you say.

Thomas blinks. "What?"

"I will leave the Hollow."

"Will you?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

He nods. He looks at you. He sees the change. He sees the weight lift from your shoulders. He sees the light.

"Good," he says.

He walks out. The door closes. The sound is final. It is a click. It is a seal.

You are alone.

The room is quiet. The rain is quiet. The hare is quiet.

You sit on the floor. You lean against the wall. The stone is cold. It seeps into your skin. It is good. It is real.

You think of the white hare. You think of the day you found it. It was running. It was fast. It was beautiful. You chased it. You caught it. You held it. You thought it was magic. You thought it was yours.

You were wrong.

It was never yours. It was a visitor. A guest. It came and it went.

You were the fool who thought it would stay.

You were the fool who thought you could hold time.

You were the fool who thought you could hold love.

You were the fool who thought you were the warden.

You are just a man.

You are just a brother.

You are just a child who grew up in a lie.

You close your eyes. You breathe. The air is cool. It is clean.

You think of Thomas. He is in his room. He is sleeping. He is safe.

You think of the village. They are sleeping. They are safe.

You think of the Hollow. It is empty. It is quiet. It is dead.

But it is free.

You open your eyes. You look at the door. It is closed. But it can be opened.

You stand up. Your legs are stiff. Your back hurts. You are old. You are young. You are both.

You walk to the door. You put your hand on the handle. It is cold. It is smooth.

You turn the handle.

The door opens.

The hallway is dark. The stairs are in front of you. You can go down. You can go out. You can go to the village. You can go to the world.

You can go to be free.

You take a step.

You take another step.

You are walking.

You are leaving.

You are alive.

The rain stops. The sky clears. The moon comes out. It is white. It is bright. It is like the hare.

It is beautiful.

It is gone.

You keep walking.