The glass sits on the table. It is clear. It is cold. You know its weight. You know its shape. It has always been there.

You are Margaret Holloway. You are sixty-four. You live in a house of stone and silence in the Cotswolds. The rain taps against the windowpane. It is a rhythmic sound. It is the sound of time passing. You do not look at the rain. You look at the glass.

You are a seer. Not in the way the newspapers like. Not with crystal balls or tarot cards. You are a seer because you hear the objects. You hear their history. You hear their sorrow. This is your gift. This is your burden. You have carried it for forty years. You have hidden it. You have smiled at neighbors. You have bought bread. You have paid bills. You have kept the secret.

But the glass speaks to you.

It says, I am waiting.

It says, I am the end.

You ignore it. You have always ignored it. You pour tea. You drink the tea. The tea is bitter. The tea is hot. The glass remains. It does not change. It does not move. It waits.

Your name is Margaret. Your father was a doctor. He died of cancer. The cancer ate him. It was slow. It was cruel. You held his hand. You felt his strength leave. You felt the light go out. You were twenty-four. You were young. You were afraid.

In that fear, you heard the bed. The bed creaked. It did not creak from weight. It creaked from memory. It remembered the pain. It remembered the long nights. It screamed in a voice like dry leaves.

You ran. You ran out of the house. You ran into the rain. You ran until your lungs burned. You ran until you could not feel your legs. You ran into a shop. You bought a glass. A simple glass. A tumbler. Clear. Cold.

The shopkeeper looked at you. He saw your face. He saw the terror. He did not ask. He wrapped the glass in paper. He handed it to you. He took your money. He did not look away.

You have kept the glass ever since.

You put it on the table. You put it in the cupboard. You put it in the drawer. But it comes back. It always comes back. It finds its place. It finds the table. It sits there. It watches you.

You are not alone in the house. There is Arthur. Arthur is your brother. He is eighty. He lives in the next room. He is sick. The sickness is in his chest. The sickness is in his breath. He coughs. The cough is wet. The cough is deep. It shakes his frame.

Arthur is a quiet man. He likes the radio. He likes the news. He likes the silence. He does not like the glass. He looks at it. He frowns. He moves it. He pushes it to the side. It slides back. It returns to the center.

"Margaret," he says.

You are in the kitchen. You are washing dishes. The water is warm. The soap is blue.

"Margaret, what is that?"

You do not answer. You dry the plate. You put it in the rack.

"It is a glass," you say.

"It is not a glass," he says. "It is heavy."

"It is glass," you say.

"It feels like lead," he says.

You turn to him. His face is pale. His eyes are dark. He is tired. He is so tired.

"Leave it," you say.

"I will take it out," he says.

"Do not touch it," you say.

He looks at you. He sees your fear. He sees the tremor in your hands. He stops. He sits down. He coughs. The cough is worse today. It is a rattle. It is a break.

You go to the table. You look at the glass. It is still. It is clear. It reflects the window. It reflects the rain.

You hear it now. It is louder. It is not a voice. It is a vibration. It is a hum. It is the hum of a wire under tension. It is the hum of a heart about to stop.

The glass is not an object. The glass is a mirror. It is your mirror. It holds what you cannot hold. It holds the end.

You remember the doctor. The doctor said, There is nothing more we can do. The doctor said, It will be soon. The doctor looked at Arthur. The doctor looked at you. The doctor saw the glass. The doctor frowned.

"Why is that there?" the doctor asked.

You said nothing.

The doctor touched the glass. He pulled his hand back. He shook it. He looked at you with pity.

"It is cold," the doctor said. "It is unnaturally cold."

You took the glass. You wrapped it in cloth. You put it in the car. You drove home. You put it on the table.

The doctor died. The doctor died last year. He died of a heart attack. He was at his desk. He was writing. He fell. He did not wake up.

You did not go to the funeral. You could not. You knew why. You knew the glass was to blame. You knew you had carried the curse. You knew you had brought the death.

You are a monster. You are a vessel for death. You are the woman who holds the end.

Arthur is dying. You know it. You hear it in the glass. You hear it in the rain. You hear it in the silence.

You go to Arthur’s room. He is sleeping. His breathing is shallow. His chest rises. It falls. It is a slow motion. It is a sad motion.

You sit by his bed. You do not touch him. You are afraid. You are afraid that if you touch him, you will break him. You are afraid that your hands are heavy with fate.

"Arthur," you whisper.

He does not wake.

"Arthur, I am sorry."

He does not wake.

You look at the glass. It is on the side table. It is near his hand. It is close. It is so close.

You want to throw it. You want to smash it. You want to break it. You want to shatter the mirror. You want to free the end. You want to save him.

You reach for it. Your hand is shaking. Your fingers are cold. You pick it up. It is cold. It is heavier than it should be. It is heavier than glass. It is heavy with grief. It is heavy with time.

You stand. You walk to the window. The rain is harder now. It is a sheet of water. It is a veil.

You look at the glass. You look at the street. The street is empty. The street is dark.

You throw it.

You throw it out the window.

It flies. It spins. It catches the light. It is a star. It is a shard of night.

It hits the pavement.

There is no sound.

There is no crash.

There is no shatter.

You run to the window. You look down.

The glass is there.

It is whole.

It is sitting on the wet pavement. It is upright. It is clean. It is dry.

It is waiting.

You cannot move. You cannot breathe. You are trapped. You are bound. The glass has won. The glass is eternal. It cannot be broken. It cannot be moved. It is fixed. It is the anchor.

You go back to Arthur’s room. You sit by his bed. You do not cry. You do not pray. You just sit. You watch him breathe.

The breath is slower. The breath is weaker. The light in his eyes is fading.

He opens his eyes. He looks at you. He does not look at the glass. He looks at you.

"Margaret," he says.

His voice is a whisper. It is like dust. It is like ash.

"Yes," you say.

"I am tired," he says.

"I know," you say.

"I am not afraid," he says.

"You should be," you say.

"No," he says. "It is not my time. It is not mine to take."

He looks at you. He sees your face. He sees your guilt. He sees your fear.

"You have carried it," he says. "You have carried it for too long."

"I am sorry," you say.

"Do not be sorry," he says. "Let it go."

He reaches for your hand. He takes it. His hand is cool. His grip is weak. But it is firm.

"It is not a curse," he says. "It is a memory. It is a weight. You must set it down."

He closes his eyes. He sleeps. Or he dies. You do not know. You do not see the end. You do not hear the stop.

You sit there. You hold his hand. You feel the life leaving. You feel it pass through you. It is like a wave. It is like a tide. It takes you with it.

You are empty. You are hollow. You are clean.

You stand up. You walk to the window. You look down.

The glass is still there.

But it is different.

It is not cold.

It is warm.

It is just glass.

It is a simple tumbler. It is clear. It is empty. It is waiting for water. It is waiting for tea. It is waiting for life.

You go to the kitchen. You pick up the kettle. You fill it with water. You put it on the stove. The water boils. The steam rises. The steam is white. The steam is soft.

You pour the water into the glass.

The glass does not scream. The glass does not hum. The glass does not wait.

It holds the water. It holds the heat. It holds the life.

You drink.

The water is hot. The water is sweet. The water is life.

You are Margaret Holloway. You are sixty-four. You live in a house of stone and silence. The rain stops. The sun comes out. The light hits the window. The light hits the glass. The light makes it shine.

You are free.

The glass remains. It is on the table. It is clean. It is empty. It is ready.

It is just a glass.