The mirror does not show your face. It shows a door. You are twelve years old, or perhaps older. Time is a loose thing here, in the high tower of Ashworth Manor, where the steam pipes hum a low, industrial lullaby. You press your palm against the glass. It is cold. It is not glass. It is water. It is the surface of a lake that has no bottom. You are looking for him. You know you are looking for him, though you have forgotten his name. You only know the shape of the absence he leaves in the room. The air tastes of copper and old rain.

The Manor is a beast of iron and stone. It stands on the edge of the moor, defying the wind. Inside, the walls are lined with mirrors. Hundreds of them. Thousands. They stretch up into the darkness, a forest of reflections that do not match the flesh. The servants move like ghosts, silent and quick. They do not look at you. They look at the mirrors. They are afraid. You are the heir. You are the master. But you are also the prisoner. The pressure is a weight in your chest, a tightness in the throat. You feel misunderstood. You feel judged by the glass eyes of your ancestors. They stare from the portraits, their lips sealed in judgment. They see a child. You know you are something else. You know you are the key.

You walk the corridor. Your footsteps echo. The floor is marble, polished to a shine that reveals your own reflection, but distorted. Stretched. Thin. You see a woman in the reflection. She is not you. She is older. Her hair is white. Her eyes are filled with a grief so deep it has become a physical thing, a stone in her stomach. She mouths words. You cannot hear them. You turn away. You do not want to see her. You want to see him.

The door in the mirror pulses. It is the only real thing in the house. You touch it again. The water ripples. A hand reaches out. It is his hand. You know it. The bones are familiar. The scar on the thumb. You reach back. Your fingers touch the skin. It is warm. It is solid. You pull. The water resists. It pulls you in.

You fall.

You are in the garden. The garden is not in the manor. It is outside. It is night. The moon is a sickly yellow disc, hanging low. The roses are black. They bloom in the dark, their petals like torn flesh. You stand in the center of the labyrinth. You are small. You are afraid. But you are determined. You will find him. You will break the cycle. You will end this.

The path is narrow. The hedges are high. They whisper. They say your name. But it is not your name. It is a name you have never heard. A name that belongs to no one. You walk. The air is thick with the scent of decay and sweetness. It is the smell of overripe fruit. The smell of death.

You see a light. It is far away. It is red. It burns in the heart of the labyrinth. You run. Your lungs burn. Your legs ache. The hedges close in. They try to stop you. They wrap around your ankles. You tear free. You keep running. The light grows brighter. The heat grows stronger.

You arrive at the center. There is a throne. It is made of black iron. It is empty. On the throne sits a box. The box is small. It is made of bone. It is beautiful. It is terrible.

You approach it. You do not touch it. You wait.

A shadow falls over you. You look up. He is there. He is tall. He is wearing a suit of black velvet. His face is obscured by a mask. The mask is white. It has no features. It is a blank canvas. He looks down at you. He does not speak. He does not need to. You know what he is. He is the King. He is the one who rules this place. He is the one you have been waiting for.

You feel a surge of anger. It is hot. It is bright. You want to strike him. You want to break the mask. You want to see his face. You want to know if he is human. You want to know if he feels pain.

"You are not him," you say. Your voice is steady. Your voice is strong.

He tilts his head. A low laugh escapes the mask. It is a dry, cracking sound.

"Who do you think I am?" he asks. His voice is smooth. It is like silk over stone.

"I don't care," you say. "I am not afraid of you. I am not a child. I am the one who ends this."

You reach for the box. You open it. Inside, there is a petal. It is white. It is soft. It is perfect. It is a wisteria petal. It is the same color as your soul.

You pick it up. You hold it in your hand. It is warm. It is alive. It beats like a heart.

"He is not here," you say. "He is gone. He has been gone for a long time."

The King steps closer. The mask is inches from your face. You can see the eyes behind it. They are dark. They are empty. They are yours.

"You are him," you say.

The King smiles. It is a sad smile. It is a tired smile.

"Yes," he says. "I am him. I have always been him. I am the one who stays. I am the one who waits. I am the one who loves you."

You drop the petal. It falls to the ground. It does not break. It dissolves. It becomes dust. It becomes memory.

"I don't want to be him," you say. "I want to go. I want to leave."

"You cannot," he says. "You are bound. You are the key and the lock. You are the door and the wall. You are the one who stays."

You look at the petal. It is gone. You look at the King. He is fading. He is becoming mist. He is becoming memory.

"I love you," he says. "I have always loved you. I will always love you. Even when you forget me. Even when you hate me. Even when you kill me."

You feel a tear slide down your cheek. It is hot. It is salty. It is the only real thing left.

"I know," you say. "I know."

He vanishes. The garden is empty. The throne is empty. The box is empty.

You are alone.

You stand in the center of the labyrinth. The hedges are silent. The moon is high. The roses are black.

You pick up the dust. You hold it in your hand. It is nothing. It is everything.

You turn. You walk out of the labyrinth. The path is clear. The night is quiet.

You return to the manor. You walk up the stairs. You enter the room. The mirror is there. The water is still.

You look at the reflection. You see yourself. You are not a child. You are not a king. You are a woman. You are old. Your hair is white. Your eyes are filled with grief.

You press your hand to the glass. It is warm. It is not water. It is glass. It is a mirror.

You see the door. It is closed. It is locked.

You open it.

You step through.

You are in the garden. You are in the labyrinth. You are the King. You are the petal. You are the dust.

The cycle begins again.

The steam pipes hum. The mirrors watch. The silence holds.

You are you. You are him. You are us.

The pain is yours. The love is yours. The end is yours.

You close the door.

You sit on the throne.

You wait.