"Who was it?"

"Me."

The word hung in the air. Thick. Cold.

"Me?"

"Yes."

Silence. Then the sound of breath. Heavy. Wet.

I looked at the floor. A stain. Dark. Spreading.

It was not blood.

It was honey.

Golden. Viscous. Sweet.

It smelled of clover. Of summer. Of things that do not last.

I knelt. My knees cracked. Old joints. Old bone.

The floor was stone. Cold. Unforgiving.

The honey pooled in the cracks. In the mortar. It filled the spaces where the stone met the stone. It made the dark places shine.

"You did it," I said.

"I had to."

"You killed him."

"No."

"Then what?"

"I broke the mirror."

I stood. My legs trembled. I gripped the hilt of my sword. The leather was worn. Soft. It fit my hand like a glove. Like a memory.

"Show me."

"Look."

I looked up.

The wall was bare. Stone. Gray. Dull.

There was no mirror.

There was only the honey.

It ran down the wall. Slow. Steady. A golden river. It ended in a puddle at my feet.

I stepped back. My boot sank into the wet.

"Where is it?" I asked.

"Gone."

"Shattered?"

"Yes."

"Into what?"

"Into the world."

I spat on the floor. The spittle mixed with the gold. It turned brown. Ugly.

"You are lying."

"I am not."

"Prove it."

"Touch it."

I reached out. My fingers were stiff. Cold.

I dipped my finger into the honey.

It was warm.

It was alive.

I pulled my hand back. The gold clung to my skin. It shone. It glowed.

I wiped it on my tunic. The wool drank it. The white became yellow. Then brown.

"It is gone," I said.

"It is here."

"Where?"

"Inside."

I looked at my chest. The tunic. The blood beneath it.

I felt a pull. A tug. In the center of my sternum.

It was not pain.

It was weight.

"Who is he?" I asked.

"You know."

"Say his name."

"Willow."

The name hit me. Hard. Fast.

Willow.

My wife.

My heart.

My home.

She was dead.

Three winters ago.

The fever took her.

The cough. The sweat. The pale face.

I held her hand. It was thin. Like a bird’s wing.

She looked at me. Her eyes were bright. Clear.

She smiled.

She died.

I buried her.

I wore black.

I wore gray.

I wore nothing.

I was a ghost. A shadow. A man without a center.

"Willow is dead," I said.

"Is she?"

"Her body is in the ground."

"Her body."

"What else?"

"Her light."

I stared at the honey.

It was spreading.

It reached the table. The wood was oak. Dark. Rich.

The honey coated it. The grain became visible. The knots. The scars.

It made the wood look new. Young. Alive.

"You are mad," I said.

"I am free."

"Freedom is a lie."

"Is it?"

"It is a cage with no bars."

"And what is a mirror?"

"A truth."

"A lie."

"Which one?"

I drew my sword.

The steel sang. A high note. Sharp. Clear.

I held it before me. The blade was long. Straight.

I looked into the metal.

I saw my face.

It was old.

It was tired.

It was empty.

There was no gold in my eyes.

There was no light in my soul.

I swung.

The sword hit the wall.

The stone chipped.

A piece flew out.

It struck the honey puddle.

It broke the surface tension.

The gold rippled.

It spread faster.

It climbed the wall.

It touched my face.

A drop fell on my cheek.

It was warm.

It stung.

I wiped it away.

My hand was stained.

Gold.

I looked at my hand.

The skin was dry. Cracked.

The honey filled the cracks.

It healed them.

The skin became smooth. Soft.

I looked at my other hand.

The sword hand.

The grip was tight.

The knuckles were white.

The veins were blue.

I opened my hand.

The sword fell.

It clattered on the stone.

The sound was loud.

It echoed.

It faded.

"Stop it," I said.

"Stop what?"

"The lie."

"Which one?"

"That you are me."

"I am you."

"No."

"I am the part of you that loved her."

"I loved her."

"Did you?"

"Yes."

"Did you let her go?"

"No."

"Then you did not love her."

The words cut.

Deep.

Sharp.

I felt them in my gut.

In my chest.

In my head.

I was angry.

I was afraid.

I was alone.

"Who are you?" I whispered.

"I am the mirror."

"The mirror is broken."

"Yes."

"Then what are you?"

"I am the reflection."

"I have no reflection."

"Look."

I looked at the floor.

The honey was everywhere.

It covered the stone.

It covered the table.

It covered the sword.

It covered me.

I was standing in a pool of gold.

My boots were sunk in it.

My legs were stained.

My clothes were soaked.

I was sinking.

Slowly.

Gently.

It was not painful.

It was heavy.

It was sweet.

It was warm.

I tried to step back.

My foot stuck.

I pulled.

It held.

I pulled harder.

It held.

I was trapped.

I was held.

I was saved.

I was doomed.

"Let me go," I said.

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"Because you are the one who needs to stay."

"I am not staying."

"You are."

"Let me go."

"I am you."

The voice was mine.

It was deep.

It was soft.

It was kind.

It was cruel.

I looked at the sword.

It lay in the honey.

The steel was dull.

The edge was blurred.

It was useless.

It was beautiful.

I reached for it.

My hand moved through the gold.

It was like moving through water.

Like moving through time.

I grasped the hilt.

I pulled.

The sword came free.

It was coated in honey.

It was heavy.

I held it.

I raised it.

I looked at the empty wall.

The place where the mirror had been.

There was nothing.

There was only the stone.

The stone was dark.

The stone was silent.

I swung.

The sword hit the wall.

The stone cracked.

A piece flew out.

It hit the honey.

It broke the surface.

The gold rippled.

It spread.

It climbed.

It touched my face.

A drop fell on my eye.

It was warm.

It stung.

I blinked.

The world was gold.

Everything was gold.

The stone.

The air.

The light.

Myself.

I was gold.

I was light.

I was free.

I was dead.

I dropped the sword.

It fell into the honey.

It sank.

It disappeared.

I stood still.

I breathed in.

The air was sweet.

I breathed out.

The breath was gold.

I felt a pull.

In my chest.

It was not pain.

It was love.

It was Willow.

It was gone.

I let it go.

I let her go.

I let myself go.

The honey rose.

It covered my legs.

It covered my waist.

It covered my chest.

It covered my face.

I could not breathe.

I did not need to breathe.

I was full.

I was complete.

I was whole.

The room was silent.

The honey was still.

It was perfect.

It was eternal.

I was gone.

I was here.

I was nowhere.

I was everywhere.

The gold covered the floor.

The gold covered the walls.

The gold covered the sky.

There was no stone.

There was no air.

There was no time.

There was only the honey.

Sweet.

Warm.

Golden.

It was the end.

It was the beginning.

It was the truth.

I was free.

I was lost.

I was found.

The mirror was broken.

The truth was whole.

I was the shard.

I was the light.

I was the love.

I was the end.

I was the start.

I was the golden mirror.

I was the broken glass.

I was the honey.

I was the light.

I was the dark.

I was the silence.

I was the sound.

I was the breath.

I was the stillness.

I was the move.

I was the stop.

I was the go.

I was the stay.

I was the leave.

I was the return.

I was the life.

I was the death.

I was the love.

I was the loss.

I was the gain.

I was the cost.

I was the price.

I was the value.

I was the worth.

I was the meaning.

I was the sense.

I was the nonsense.

I was the sense of it all.

I was the end of it all.

I was the golden mirror.

I was the shattered glass.

I was the honey.

I was the light.

I was the dark.

I was the silence.

I was the sound.

I was the breath.

I was the stillness.

I was the move.

I was the stop.

I was the go.

I was the stay.

I was the leave.

I was the return.

I was the life.

I was the death.

I was the love.

I was the loss.

I was the gain.

I was the cost.

I was the price.

I was the value.

I was the worth.

I was the meaning.

I was the sense.

I was the nonsense.

I was the sense of it all.

I was the end of it all.