The cage breaks.

It happens at dawn. The iron bars, cold and slick with frost, snap like dry twigs. You are inside. You have always been inside. The air tastes of rust and old blood. It is a sweet, metallic tang. You breathe it in. It fills your lungs. It settles in your bones.

You look down. Your hands are bound. Not by rope. By skin. The leather straps are part of you now. They have grown into your palms. You pull. The flesh tears. You do not feel pain. You feel only a dull, heavy pressure. A weight that is not yours.

There is a bird.

It is perched on the broken bar. A wren. Small. Brown. Its eyes are black beads. It looks at you. It does not sing. It waits.

You know this bird. You have known it for years. It lives in the walls of the Keep. It eats the crumbs you drop. You have fed it. You have watched it. It is your shadow. It is your heart. It is the only thing that is not made of iron.

The door opens.

It swings inward with a groan. The hinges scream. A sound like a dying man. Light floods the room. It is harsh. It is white. It burns your eyes. You shield your face with your arm. The leather straps creak.

A man enters.

He wears grey. The uniform of the Wardens. His face is hidden behind a mask of bone. It is smooth. Featureless. It has no mouth. No nose. Only two holes for eyes. He holds a staff. The wood is dark. It is wet. It drips onto the stone floor.

"Rise," he says.

His voice is flat. It has no echo. It sounds like a stone dropped in a well.

You do not move. Your legs are stiff. They have not walked in weeks. You try to stand. Your knees buckle. You fall back to the straw. The sound is a wet thud.

The Warden steps closer. His boots do not make a sound. He stops before you. The bone mask tilts.

"You are broken," he says.

"No," you whisper. Your voice is a rasp. "I am whole."

The Warden does not answer. He raises the staff. He taps your shoulder. The impact is gentle. But it sends a shock through you. Your teeth rattle. Your vision blurs.

"Time to go," he says.

He turns. He walks to the door. He waits.

You stand. It takes everything you have. Your muscles scream. The leather straps dig into your wrists. You follow him. Your feet drag on the stone. The sound is a scrape. A hiss.

The corridor is long. It is dark. There are no windows. There are no doors. Only shadows. You walk. The Warden walks. The distance between you never changes.

You hear a sound.

It is a clatter. A rattle. It comes from a cell on your left. You stop. The Warden stops.

You look.

There is a man in the cell. He is thin. His eyes are wide. He presses his face against the bars. His lips move. He is speaking.

"Help," he says.

You step closer. The Warden steps back. He blocks your path.

"Look forward," he commands.

"I hear him," you say.

"Look forward."

The man in the cell screams. It is a high, thin sound. It pierces the air. It cuts through you.

"Please," you say. "Let me go."

The Warden says nothing. He pushes you. His hand is on your back. It is cold. It is hard. You stumble. You walk.

The man in the cell stops screaming. He is silent. You do not look back. You cannot look back. If you look back, you will stay. If you stay, you will break.

The corridor ends.

A door stands before you. It is massive. It is oak. It is covered in iron plates. The metal is green with age. There is no handle. There is no lock.

The Warden raises his staff. He strikes the door.

Once.

The wood shudders.

Twice.

The iron groans.

Three times.

The door falls inward. It crashes to the floor. The sound is a thunderclap. Dust rises. It hangs in the air. It glows in the light.

You step over the door.

The room is empty.

It is round. The walls are smooth. The floor is stone. There is a table in the center. It is made of black wood. On the table, there is a bowl. The bowl is silver. It is full of water.

The Warden points to the table.

"Drink," he says.

You walk to the table. Your legs are shaking. You stop. You look at the water. It is clear. It is still. You see your reflection. It is distorted. It is dark.

You kneel. You lower your head. You drink.

The water is cold. It is sweet. It tastes of ice. It tastes of snow. It goes down your throat. It fills your chest.

You feel a warmth. It starts in your stomach. It spreads. It moves to your arms. It moves to your legs. It moves to your head.

You feel strong.

You feel free.

You stand up. You wipe your mouth. Your hands are steady. The leather straps have loosened. They hang loose. They do not bite.

The Warden watches you. His mask is still. His eyes are still.

"Who are you?" you ask.

"I am the gate," he says.

"Where is the bird?" you ask.

The Warden does not answer. He turns. He walks to the door. He waits.

You look around the room. The walls are bare. There are no windows. There are no birds. There is only the table. There is only the water. There is only the Warden.

You walk to the door. You step past him.

The corridor is long. It is dark. You walk. The Warden walks.

You hear a sound.

It is a clatter. A rattle. It comes from a cell on your right. You stop. The Warden stops.

You look.

There is a woman in the cell. She is old. Her hair is white. Her eyes are closed. She is breathing. She is sleeping.

You step closer. The Warden steps back. He blocks your path.

"Look forward," he commands.

"Is she my wife?" you ask.

The Warden says nothing.

"Is she Margaret?" you ask.

The Warden says nothing.

You push past him. You do not care. You do not care about the rules. You do not care about the gate. You walk to the cell.

The bars are cold. You press your hand against them. The leather straps creak.

"Margaret," you say.

Her eyes open.

They are blue. They are bright. They are full of pain. They are full of love.

"Thomas," she says.

Her voice is soft. It is like a whisper. It is like a dream.

"I am here," you say.

"I am lost," she says.

"No," you say. "You are found."

She reaches out. Her hand touches the bars. Your hand touches the bars. Your fingers intertwine. The iron is cold. The skin is warm.

"Take me," she says.

"I cannot," you say.

"Why?" she asks.

"Because I am the gate," you say.

She smiles. It is a sad smile. It is a tired smile.

"I know," she says.

The Warden is behind you. You do not turn. You can feel his presence. It is cold. It is heavy.

"Go," he says.

You look at Margaret. Her eyes are wet. Her face is pale. She is fading. She is becoming part of the wall. She is becoming part of the stone.

"Run," she says.

You do not run. You stay. You hold the bars. You hold her hand.

The Warden strikes the door again.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

The door falls.

You are still there.

The Warden walks to you. He stops. He raises his staff.

"Let go," he says.

"No," you say.

He strikes your shoulder. The pain is sharp. It is hot. You cry out. You do not let go.

He strikes your arm. The leather straps tear. The skin rips. Blood flows. It is red. It is warm. It drips onto the stone.

You do not let go.

He strikes your leg. You fall. You are on your knees. You are bleeding. You are shaking.

"Let go," he says.

You look at Margaret. She is gone. The cell is empty. There is only the stone. There is only the bars. There is only the dust.

You look at the Warden. His mask is cracked. A hairline fracture runs down the side. A small drop of blood seeps out. It is red. It is wet.

You laugh.

It is a dry sound. It is a broken sound.

"You are broken," you say.

The Warden lowers his staff. He stands still. He does not move. He does not breathe.

You stand up. Your legs are weak. Your body is broken. You are covered in blood. You are covered in dust.

You walk to the door. You step past the Warden. He does not stop you. He does not move. He is a statue. He is a ghost.

You walk into the light.

It is blinding. It is white. It burns your eyes. You close them. You feel the sun on your face. It is warm. It is gentle.

You open your eyes.

You are outside.

You are in a field. It is green. It is soft. The grass is tall. The wind is blowing. It is cool. It is fresh.

You look down. Your hands are free. The leather straps are gone. Your palms are smooth. They are clean.

You look up.

The sky is blue. It is vast. It is empty.

There is a bird.

It is perched on a branch. A wren. Small. Brown. Its eyes are black beads. It looks at you. It sings.

It is a sweet sound. It is a clear sound. It is the sound of life.

You smile.

You are free.

You are alone.

You are whole.

You walk. You walk into the field. You walk into the light. You walk into the silence.

The bird follows you. It flies low. It hovers. It watches.

It is your shadow. It is your heart. It is the only thing that is not made of iron.

You do not look back. You cannot look back. If you look back, you will stay. If you stay, you will break.

You walk.

The grass is soft. The air is cool. The sun is warm.

You are alive.

You are free.

You are alone.