"You have not prayed."

The voice came from the shadows of the high ceiling. It was my father’s voice, but it was also the wind. It was the creak of the oak beams. It was the dry rasp of a throat that had not tasted water in three days.

I did not look up. I was counting the cracks in the plaster. One. Two. Three. The air in the hall was thick with the smell of rotting lilies and old iron.

"Look at me," he said.

I looked. He stood by the arched window. The moonlight cut through the glass, slicing the room in half. He was a shadow with edges. His face was pale. His eyes were wet.

"I am a prisoner," I said. "The walls are high. The doors are locked."

"You are a sinner," he replied. "And sin is a key."

I laughed. The sound was small. It died in the dust.

"Let me go," I said. "I have done my time."

"Have you?" He took a step forward. The floorboards groaned under his weight. "You think the tower is a cage? You think I built it to hold you? No. I built it to hold the world out."

The world. What world? I had not seen the sun in months. I had not heard a bird. I had only the wind. And the voices.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"I am the one who watches." He raised his hand. It was thin. The bones showed like twigs. "I am the one who trusts you."

"Trust?" I spat the word. It tasted of ash. "You locked me away. You starved me. You called it mercy."

"It was mercy." His voice shook. "The sickness is in the air, Thomas. It is in the soil. It is in the water. If you went down, you would die. If you went out, you would infect them. I kept you safe."

Safe. The word was a lie. It was a beautiful, golden lie. I knew it. I had always known it. But I wanted to hear it. I wanted to believe it.

"Let me see her," I said.

His face changed. The tension in his jaw snapped.

"Margaret?"

"Yes. My wife. My daughter."

"She is gone," he said.

"No. She is in the garden. I can hear her singing."

He closed his eyes. A tear rolled down his cheek. It was a single, clear drop. It fell onto the stone floor. It made a tiny sound.

"She is dead, Thomas. She died last winter. The fever took her. Then it took the baby. Then it took the servants. I buried them in the crypt. I sealed the door. I am the last one standing."

I felt a cold knot in my stomach. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear down the walls. But I could not move. My legs were lead. My arms were stone.

"Why?" I whispered. "Why did you keep me here?"

"Because I love you," he said. "And because I am afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"Of you. Of what you are."

I looked at him. I really looked at him. For the first time, I saw the fear in his eyes. It was not the fear of a father for a son. It was the fear of a man who knows he has made a terrible mistake.

"I am not a monster," I said. "I am a man."

"You are a vessel," he said. "The sickness lives in you. It has lived in you since birth. It is in your blood. It is in your breath. If you leave, it will spread. It will kill them all. I could not let that happen. I could not."

I looked at the window. The moon was full. It was bright. It was cold.

"Open the door," I said.

"What?"

"Open the door."

"If I do, you will die."

"Then let me die."

He shook his head. "No. I will not watch you die. I will not be the one who killed you. I am already a killer, Thomas. I killed her. I killed your child. I will not kill you."

"Then open the door."

He stepped back. He went to the heavy oak door at the end of the hall. It was barred. There were three locks. Iron. Steel. Bone.

He put his hand on the handle. His hand trembled.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Yes."

He turned the key. The first lock clicked.

The sound was loud. It echoed in the empty hall.

He turned the second key. It clicked.

The air seemed to change. It got colder.

He turned the third key. It clicked.

The door swung open.

There was no wind. There was no light. There was only darkness.

I walked to the door. I stopped.

"Father," I said.

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

He looked at me. His eyes were closed. He was weeping.

"I am sorry," he said. "I am so sorry."

I walked out.

The hallway was long. It was dark. I could not see my hand in front of my face. But I could hear. I could hear the wind. It was different now. It was not a howl. It was a whisper.

I walked. I did not stop. I did not look back.

I reached the end of the hall. There was a staircase. It went down. Into the earth.

I went down.

The stairs were cold. They were wet. They smelled of mud and rot.

I walked for an hour. I walked for a day. I did not know. Time did not matter.

I reached the bottom.

There was a door. It was small. It was made of wood. It was painted blue.

I knocked.

No one answered.

I knocked again.

A voice came from inside. It was soft. It was kind.

"Who is there?"

"It is me," I said. "Thomas."

The door opened.

A woman stood there. She was old. Her hair was white. Her eyes were dark.

She looked at me. She smiled.

"I have been waiting," she said.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"I am the keeper," she said. "I am the one who holds the key."

"The key to what?"

"To the truth."

She stepped aside. I walked into the room.

It was small. It was round. There was a table. There was a chair. There was a candle. It was burning.

There was a mirror on the wall.

I looked at the mirror.

I did not see my face.

I saw the sickness.

It was a black mist. It was swirling in the air. It was coming out of my mouth. It was coming out of my eyes. It was coming out of my skin.

It was beautiful.

It was terrible.

I looked at the woman.

"Is this real?" I asked.

"Yes," she said.

"Did I kill them?"

"Yes."

I fell to my knees. I vomited. The black mist poured out of me. It hit the floor. It hissed. It turned the stone to ash.

I looked at the woman. She was not afraid. She was not disgusted. She was watching me with pity.

"You are not a monster," she said. "You are a victim."

"Of what?"

"Of love," she said. "Of a love that was too strong. A love that was too blind. Your father loved you so much that he destroyed you to save you. And you loved him so much that you let him do it."

I looked at the mirror again.

The mist was gone.

I saw my face. It was young. It was sad. It was human.

"I am free," I said.

"No," she said. "You are alone."

I stood up. I walked to the door.

"Where do I go?" I asked.

"Anywhere," she said. "Everywhere. Nowhere. The world is wide, Thomas. And it is empty. And it is yours."

I walked out of the room. I walked up the stairs. I walked through the dark.

I reached the top.

The door was open.

The moonlight flooded in.

I stepped out into the courtyard.

The garden was dead. The lilies were black. The trees were bare. The ground was cracked.

But the air was clean.

I took a breath.

It was cold. It was sharp. It was real.

I looked at the tower. It was tall. It was gray. It was a monument to a mistake.

I looked at the sky. It was full of stars.

I turned away.

I walked down the path. I walked out of the gate.

I did not look back.

I was free.

I was alone.

And I was alive.