The gate was locked, naturally, which was the first thing Thomas Bradshaw noticed as he stood on the muddy verge of the A47, his breath hanging in the cold November air like a ghost that had forgotten how to leave, and he thought to himself, with that peculiar, detached amusement that had become his only companion in the last three weeks, that it was rather absurd to be standing before the only house that had ever truly seen him, and to find that the lock was not a metaphor for his sin, but a simple, rusted piece of iron that required a key he did not possess, and perhaps never had, for he had been the one who held the master key to the household, the one who had unlocked every door from the pantry to the attic, yet here he was, a stranger on his own threshold, wearing a coat that smelled of stale tobacco and regret, and the fog was rolling in off the moor, thick and grey and indifferent, swallowing the world in a slow, suffocating embrace that felt less like a natural phenomenon and more like the eye of God closing in on him, and he could hear the wind whistling through the broken slats of the window above, a sound like a flute played by a madman, and he knew, with a certainty that settled in his bones like lead, that if he did not go in, he would stand there until the cold took him, and if he did go in, he would have to face the mirror that hung in the hall, the one that had watched him dress for work for thirty years, the one that had watched him break Margaret’s heart, and the one that now watched him break his own, and he took a step forward, the mud sucking at his boot with a wet, visceral sound that made him flinch, and he thought of the old man, Silas, who had lived in the cottage at the edge of the village, the one who had once told him that a man is only as good as the lie he tells himself, and Silas had been wrong, or perhaps he had been right, and Thomas could not tell the difference anymore, for the distinction had dissolved in the acid of his guilt, and he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small, brass key he had found in the lining of his glove, a key he had not known he carried, a key that had been sewn into the fabric by some hand that was no longer alive, and he inserted it into the lock, and it turned with a click that was loud in the silence, a sound that echoed in his head like a gunshot, and the door swung open, revealing the hallway, which was exactly as he had left it, dusted in a fine layer of grey, the wallpaper peeling in long, dry strips that curled like the skin of a dead man, and the mirror was there, standing in its corner, its frame tarnished, its glass dark and unreflective, and Thomas walked toward it, his footsteps slow and deliberate, each one a confession, and as he approached, he saw that the mirror was not empty, but filled with a single, pale face, his own face, but older, sadder, the eyes hollowed out by a grief so deep it had become a physical thing, a weight that pressed against his ribs, and he looked at the face in the mirror and saw the truth of what he had done, not the act itself, which was a thing of the past, but the consequence, the slow, inevitable decay of a soul that had chosen comfort over love, and he had been so afraid of the cold, so afraid of the loneliness of the wild, that he had burned down the house that could have kept him warm, and the mirror did not judge him, it simply showed him, and in that showing, there was a terrible, quiet mercy, for to be seen is to be real, and Thomas was no longer a shadow, no longer a rumor, but a man, a broken, bleeding man, standing in the ruins of his own life, and he raised his hand to touch the glass, and his finger left a smudge on the surface, a small, human mark in the darkness, and he thought of Margaret, who had gone to the city, who had sent no letters, who had simply vanished into the vast, indifferent machinery of the modern world, and he wondered if she was still there, if she was still thinking of him, if she was still waiting for the man who had been worth waiting for, and the answer was no, he knew it was no, for she had waited long enough, and the waiting had eaten her, as it had eaten him, and the only thing left was the space where the love had been, a hollow, a vacuum, a silence that was louder than any scream, and he pulled his hand back, and he looked around the room, and he saw the chair, the one where he used to sit and read the newspaper, the one where Margaret used to sit and stitch, and he sat down, and he waited, and the fog pressed against the windows, and the wind howled, and the house creaked and groaned, and he felt the cold seep into his bones, and he did not move, and he did not speak, and he did not pray, for he had nothing left to say, and nothing left to beg for, and he was just a man in a chair, in a house that was no longer a home, in a world that had turned its back on him, and the mirror watched him, and the mirror did not blink, and the mirror did not lie, and the mirror was the only thing in the world that was honest, and Thomas Bradshaw, the man who had locked the gate, the man who had thrown away the key, the man who had walked away from the woman who had given him everything, sat in the dark, and he felt the weight of his own existence, and it was heavy, and it was real, and it was his, and he could not escape it, and he did not want to, for there was no place to go, and no one to go to, and the only thing that mattered was the truth, and the truth was that he was alone, and he had made himself alone, and he would stay alone, and the fog would lift, and the sun would rise, and the world would go on, and Thomas Bradshaw would sit in the chair, and he would wait for the end, and the end would come, and it would be quiet, and it would be sad, and it would be his, and the mirror would watch him until the light went out, and the mirror would remain, and the house would remain, and the gate would remain locked, and the key would remain in the pocket of a coat that would eventually rot, and the story would end, and the story would begin again, and the fog would roll in, and the wind would whistle, and the man would sit, and the man would wait, and the man would be alone, and the man would be free, for the first time, and the freedom was a terrible thing, and the freedom was a beautiful thing, and the freedom was the only thing that was real, and Thomas Bradshaw closed his eyes, and he let go, and the cold took him, and the cold was kind, and the cold was quiet, and the cold was the only friend he had left, and the mirror watched, and the mirror did not judge, and the mirror did not forgive, and the mirror simply saw, and the seeing was enough, and the seeing was everything, and the seeing was the end.