The clock ticks. You hear it in the marrow of your bones. It is a dry, wooden sound, relentless as a heartbeat that refuses to stop. You stand in the center of the great hall. The air is cold. It smells of dust and old varnish. You are not the master of this house. You never were. You are the ghost who remains.

Who are you? You do not know your name. It has slipped away like water through fingers. You remember only the weight of the object in your hand. It is a silver key. It is heavy. It is cold. It is the only thing that feels real.

The doors are locked. You try the handle. It does not move. You are trapped. The walls are lined with portraits. They watch you. Their eyes are painted with a cruel, serene indifference. You recognize one. It is a man in a dark suit. His jaw is tight. His eyes are black pits. He is the one who sent you away. He is the one who took your home. He is the one who killed you, or so you believe.

You look at the key. It is tarnished. There is a chip in the bow. You remember making that chip. You remember the sound of the metal bending under your hammer. You remember the pride. You remember the love.

Who was she?

The face is blurry. A woman. Dark hair. A dress of blue silk. She stood by the window. The light caught her face. She smiled. It was a smile of such pure, instinctual joy that it broke your heart. You loved her. You loved her with a force that defied reason. It was a primal thing. It was a hunger.

You turn to the door. You strike it. Your fist hits the wood. It is solid. Unyielding. You strike it again. And again. The pain in your hand is sharp. It is real.

"You cannot escape," a voice says.

You turn. There is no one there. The voice comes from the walls. It is the voice of the man in the portrait. It is low. It is calm. It is the voice of authority.

"I am not trying to escape," you say. Your voice is hoarse. You have not spoken in a long time. "I am trying to find her."

"Her?" The voice laughs. It is a dry, rattling sound. "She is gone. She is gone, and you are nothing. You are a mistake. You are a stain on my house."

You clench the key. The metal cuts into your palm. You do not care. You feel the blood bead. It is warm.

"Show me," you say. "Show me where she is."

"Look around you," the voice says. "This is your tomb. This is your punishment. You stole from me. You stole my power. And now you pay."

You look at the room. The furniture is covered in white sheets. They look like ghosts. The chandelier hangs high above. It is dark. The candles are out.

You walk to the fireplace. The ash is cold. You sift through it with your fingers. You look for something. A bone. A piece of the key. A scrap of paper.

You find a button. It is blue. Silk.

Your heart stops.

You hold the button. It is small. It is perfect. It belongs to her.

"I am here," you whisper.

The voice does not answer.

You walk to the far wall. There is a painting there. It is covered by a cloth. You pull it down.

It is a mirror.

You look into it. You see your face. It is old. It is broken. Your eyes are hollow. You see the key in your hand. You see the blood on your palm.

You are not a ghost. You are a prisoner.

The door opens.

The man stands in the doorway. He is not a portrait. He is flesh and blood. He is tall. He is thin. His hair is white. His face is lined with age. But his eyes are young. They are sharp. They are cruel.

"You are still here," he says.

"Where is she?" you ask.

"She is dead," he says. "She died twenty years ago."

"No," you say. "You killed her."

"I did nothing," he says. "She chose to leave. She chose to be with you. And you took her from me. You took her from this house. You took her from me."

"I loved her," you say.

"Love is a chain," he says. "And you broke it."

He steps into the room. He walks slowly. His shoes click on the floor. He stops in front of you. He looks at the key in your hand.

"That key," he says. "You still have it."

"I cannot throw it away," you say.

"Then you cannot let go," he says.

You look at the key. You look at the man. You look at the mirror.

You see the truth.

You did not steal from him. You did not kill her. You did not trap yourself in this house. You trapped yourself in your grief. You trapped yourself in your guilt. You trapped yourself in your love.

The key is not a key to a door. It is a key to your heart. And it is locked.

"You are free," he says.

"No," you say. "I am not."

He smiles. It is a sad smile. "You are. I released you. I released you twenty years ago. But you refused to come. You chose to stay. You chose to haunt."

You drop the key. It clatters on the floor. The sound is loud. It is final.

You look at the mirror. Your face is clear. You are young. You are whole.

You turn to the door. You walk to it. You open it.

The light is bright. It is the light of day. It is the light of the world.

You step out.

The house is gone. The walls are gone. The portraits are gone. The man is gone.

You are standing in a field. The grass is green. The sky is blue. The air is fresh.

You are alive.

You are free.

You walk. You do not know where you are going. You do not know your name. You do not know the past. You do not know the future.

You know only the present. You know only the air in your lungs. You know only the sun on your skin.

You are free.

But then you feel the weight in your pocket.

You reach in.

You feel the key.

It is there. It is cold. It is heavy.

You are not free.

You are always here.

The clock ticks.

You hear it in the marrow of your bones.

You stand in the center of the great hall.

You are the ghost who remains.