The banquet hall smelled of roasted pheasant and old dust. We were seated at the long oak table, the kind that stretched back centuries into the wood grain. Marcus sat to my left. He wore a suit that fit too well, the kind of perfection that makes you feel ill. I was the clerk. I was the one who filed the papers. I was the one who knew where the bodies were buried, though they were not actually buried. They were archived.

"Another glass?" Marcus asked. His voice was smooth. It was like oil on water.

"I am full," I said.

"Drink."

I looked at the wine. It was red. It was thick. It looked like the inside of a throat. I drank. It burned. It tasted of iron.

"Tell them," Marcus said. He pointed to the others. There were five of them. They sat in silence. They watched me. They were not friends. They were assets. They were liabilities. They were me.

"Tell them what?" I asked.

"The story. The green story. The one about the glass."

I laughed. It was a dry sound. It was a crack in the pavement. "There is no green story. There is no glass. You are confusing me with someone else."

"I am not confused," Marcus said. "You are. You have always been confused. You are the key. You are the lock. You are the door. Open it."

I looked at my hands. They were shaking. I had to stop. I had to think. I remembered the files. I remembered the dates. I remembered the numbers. The numbers were wrong. The numbers were always wrong.

"Marcus," I said. "You are lying."

"Am I?" He smiled. It was a small smile. It did not reach his eyes. "Look at the window."

I looked. The window was large. It was framed in gold. Outside, there was nothing. There was only fog. The fog was thick. It was white. It was alive. It moved. It breathed.

"Is that the greenhouse?" I asked.

"Yes," Marcus said. "Is it not beautiful?"

It was not beautiful. It was cold. It was dead. It was a trap.

"I don't want it," I said.

"You want it," Marcus said. "You have wanted it for years. You have chased it. You have bled for it. You have died for it. And now you have it. And you do not want it. Why?"

"Because it is empty," I said.

"Is it?" Marcus leaned forward. "Or are you just afraid to look inside?"

I stood up. The chair scraped against the floor. It was a loud noise. It cut through the air. The others flinched. Marcus did not move. He watched me. He was waiting.

"I am going to leave," I said.

"You cannot leave," Marcus said. "You are part of the house. You are part of the foundation. If you leave, the house falls. If the house falls, we all die."

"I don't care," I said.

"You do care," Marcus said. "You care about him. You care about Thomas. You care about the promise. You care about the truth. You care about the green."

Thomas. The name hit me. It was a stone in my stomach. I had forgotten him. I had forgotten everything. I had forgotten the weight of it. I had forgotten the cost.

"Where is he?" I asked.

"He is in the glass," Marcus said. "He is in the light. He is in the green. He is everywhere. He is nowhere. He is you."

I felt the floor tilt. The room spun. The pheasant on the table was no longer food. It was a trophy. It was a warning.

"Show me," I said.

Marcus stood up. He buttoned his jacket. He looked at me. He looked at the others. He looked at the fog.

"Follow me," he said.

We walked out of the hall. We walked down the corridor. The walls were white. The floor was black. The air was cold. We walked for a long time. We walked until our legs burned. We walked until our minds went blank.

Then we stopped.

We were in a room. The room was circular. The room was empty. In the center of the room, there was a structure. It was made of glass. It was tall. It was green. It was the greenhouse.

"It is small," I said.

"It is large," Marcus said. "It is everything."

I walked toward it. I could see the reflections. I could see my face. I could see Marcus's face. I could see the faces of the others. They were distorted. They were stretched. They were screaming.

"Thomas?" I called out.

There was no answer. There was only the hum. The hum of the glass. The hum of the light.

I touched the glass. It was warm. It was alive. It pulsed. It beat. It was like a heart. It was like a brain. It was like a soul.

"He is in there," I said.

"No," Marcus said. "You are in there. You have always been in there. You built it. You filled it. You trapped him. You trapped yourself. You trapped us."

I pulled my hand back. It was burning. I looked at my palm. There was a mark. It was green. It was a leaf. It was a seal.

"I didn't mean to," I said.

"Intent is irrelevant," Marcus said. "Action is real. Consequence is real. You have created a world. A world of green. A world of silence. A world of pain. And you are the god of it. You are the prisoner of it. You are the jailer and the inmate."

I looked at the glass. I saw Thomas. He was sitting on a bench. He was reading a book. He was smiling. He looked happy. He looked free.

"He looks happy," I said.

"He is happy," Marcus said. "He is happy because he is gone. He is happy because he is not you. He is happy because he is free. You are not free. You are the cage."

I felt the truth of it. It was heavy. It was crushing. It was the weight of years. It was the weight of choices. It was the weight of guilt.

"I can break it," I said.

"Can you?" Marcus asked. "If you break it, he dies. If he dies, you die. If you die, we die. Is that what you want? Is that what you can do?"

I looked at the glass. I looked at Thomas. I looked at Marcus. I looked at the others. They were watching. They were waiting. They were judging.

I raised my hand. I raised my fist. I was going to hit it. I was going to smash it. I was going to free him. I was going to free myself.

I stopped.

I looked at my fist. It was trembling. I looked at the glass. It was flawless. It was perfect. It was eternal.

"I can't," I said.

Marcus nodded. He was not surprised. He was not angry. He was sad. He was relieved.

"You are weak," Marcus said.

"No," I said. "I am strong. I am strong enough to leave it be. I am strong enough to bear the weight. I am strong enough to live with it."

Marcus smiled. It was a real smile this time. It was small. It was warm.

"Then you are ready," he said.

"Ready for what?" I asked.

"Ready to stay," he said. "Ready to serve. Ready to keep the light on. Ready to keep the green alive. You are the keeper. You have always been the keeper. You are not the victim. You are the guardian. You are the sacrifice."

I looked at the greenhouse. I looked at Thomas. I saw the way the light caught his hair. I saw the way the shadow fell on his face. I saw the peace in his eyes.

It was a lie. It was a beautiful lie. It was a golden lie. It was a green lie.

I turned around. I walked away. I walked back down the corridor. I walked back to the hall. The others were still there. They were still silent. They were still watching.

Marcus followed me. He did not say anything. He did not need to say anything. We knew. We all knew.

We sat back down. The pheasant was gone. The wine was empty. The room was quiet.

"Thank you," I said.

"For what?" Marcus asked.

"For the truth," I said.

"It was not the truth," Marcus said. "It was a story. We are all stories. We are all characters. We are all ghosts. We are all green."

I looked at my hand. The mark was gone. The green was gone. The pain was gone.

Only the silence remained.

Only the weight remained.

I closed my eyes. I breathed in. I breathed out. I was here. I was alive. I was trapped.

The fog outside pressed against the glass. It knocked. It begged. It waited.

I did not move.

I did not speak.

I did not look.

I was the keeper.

I was the cage.

I was the green.

And it was enough.

It was always enough.

The light dimmed. The shadows grew. The room became a box. The box became a grave. The grave became a garden. The garden became a hell.

I smiled.

I smiled.

I smiled.