The glass shattered.

It did not break loudly. It broke with a sigh, a thin, high-pitched note that cut through the heavy air of the parlor. The mirror on the wall, once whole and reflective, was now a web of fractures. Each shard caught the dim light from the gas lamp, throwing prismatic ghosts across the wallpaper.

Margaret stared at it. Her hands were steady. They were always steady. That was what people said. Margaret Holloway, the housekeeper, the keeper of the house, the keeper of silence.

"Did you see that?" asked Arthur. He stood by the window, his back to her. His uniform was pressed, the brass buttons gleaming. He had just come from the war, or what passed for it in this quiet, industrial town. A distant conflict. A necessary friction.

"I saw it," Margaret said.

"Shattered."

"Completely."

Arthur turned. His face was pale. The war had taken the color from it, leaving only the grey of the sky and the brown of the mud. He looked at the mirror. Then he looked at her.

"You are quiet, Margaret."

"I am a servant, Mr. Ashworth."

"No." He stepped closer. His boots made no sound on the thick carpet. "You are the house. You are the walls."

Margaret did not move. She felt the cold of the glass in the air. It was a cold that lived inside the walls. It had been there for thirty years. Since the day her mother had died. Since the day the house had become a tomb.

"The war is over, Arthur," she said. Her voice was soft. Like dust settling.

"Is it?"

"The guns are silent."

"The guns are silent because they are broken. Like the glass."

He walked to the mirror. He reached out a hand. His finger hovered over the largest crack. He did not touch it. He could not. To touch it was to admit the fragility. To admit that he, too, was made of thin, brittle things.

"You think I am weak," he said. It was not a question.

"I think you are tired."

"I am not tired. I am full. Full of the sound. The screaming. The metal biting into the flesh. It is in my teeth, Margaret. It is in my blood."

Margaret looked at the floor. The shadows were long. The clock on the mantel ticked. Tick. Tick. Tick. A mechanical heartbeat.

"We must clean it up," she said.

"No."

"Mr. Ashworth. The shards. They are dangerous."

"Let them be."

"If a child falls..."

"There are no children here. There is only us. And the dead."

He turned his back to her again. He looked out the window. The street below was empty. The streetlamps burned with a sickly yellow light. The fog rolled in from the river, thick and white. It swallowed the street. It swallowed the world.

Margaret walked to the sideboard. She picked up a cloth. She began to dust the shelf. The motion was rhythmic. Left. Right. Left. Right. A ritual. A prayer.

"You still do that," Arthur said.

"What?"

"The cleaning. The erasing. You wipe away the evidence of life. The dust of the day. The trace of the hand."

"Dust is not evidence. Dust is time."

"Time is a thief."

"Time is a mirror."

He laughed. It was a dry, cracked sound. "You are strange, Margaret. You speak in riddles. You speak like a ghost."

"I am not a ghost. I am here."

"Are you?"

"I am here."

He turned to her. His eyes were wet. Not with tears. With something else. A dark, viscous thing. The memory of blood.

"I killed a man," he said.

Margaret stopped dusting. The cloth hung limp in her hand.

"A boy, really. He was no older than you were when you came to work here. He had my name on his lips. He was begging. I shot him."

Margaret looked at the mirror. The fractures spread across the glass like veins. Like roots. Like a map of a place that did not exist.

"Was it necessary?" she asked.

"Was it?"

"I do not know."

"I do not know either. I do not know if I saved him. Or if I damned myself. I do not know if the gun was in my hand. Or if it was in mine. I do not know if I am the killer. Or the victim."

"You are the man who stands here," Margaret said.

"I am the man who cannot leave."

"You are the man who must clean."

"Clean what?"

"The blood. The guilt. The self."

He looked at her. He saw himself in her eyes. Not the reflection. The truth. The truth was a small, dark room. A room with no door. A room where the mirror had cracked.

"I want to break it," he said.

"What?"

"The mirror. I want to break it all. I want to shatter the reflection. I want to be the shards. I want to be the dust."

Margaret picked up a shard. It was small. A sliver of silver and glass. It cut her thumb. A drop of blood welled up. Red. Bright. Alive.

She did not pull her hand away. She held the shard up to the light. The blood smeared across the glass. The reflection was distorted. Broken.

"Look," she said.

Arthur looked. He saw the blood. He saw the crack. He saw the face of a woman who had kept the house for thirty years. A woman who had eaten the silence. A woman who had become the walls.

"It is not a mirror," she said. "It is a wound."

He dropped to his knees. The sound of his knees hitting the carpet was dull. Thud. Thud. He looked at the blood on the glass. He looked at her hand.

"Why do you keep it?" he asked. His voice was a whisper.

"Because it is the only thing that is real."

"The pain?"

"Yes."

"The guilt?"

"Yes."

"The war?"

"Yes."

He closed his eyes. He breathed. In. Out. In. Out. The air was thick. The air was heavy. The air was full of the scent of dust and blood and gas.

"I cannot live with it," he said.

"You can. You have been living with it. You have been living in the house. You have been living in the silence. You have been living in the cracks."

"I want out."

"There is no out. There is only the house. And the glass. And the blood."

He looked at her. He saw the strength in her face. The cold, hard strength. The strength of the stone. The strength of the steel.

"Are you strong, Margaret?" he asked.

"I am the house."

"Is the house strong?"

"The house stands."

"The house is empty."

"No. The house is full. Full of ghosts. Full of memories. Full of the sound of the ticking clock."

He stood up. He walked to the door. His hand was on the knob. He paused.

"If I leave," he said. "If I go back to the front. If I go back to the mud. Will you stay?"

"I am the house. I stay."

"Then I am the one who leaves."

"No. You are the one who stays. You are part of the house. You are part of the glass. You are part of the crack."

He turned to her. His face was a mask. A mask of pain. A mask of guilt. A mask of the war.

"I am tired of being the crack," he said.

"Then be the glass."

"Shattered?"

"Yes."

He nodded. He did not open the door. He did not leave. He walked back to the center of the room. He stood before the mirror. He looked at the shards. He looked at the blood. He looked at himself.

He picked up a larger shard. It was jagged. Sharp. It caught the light. It threw a beam across the floor.

He held it in his hand. The weight of it was heavy. The weight of the glass. The weight of the past. The weight of the future.

He brought it to his chest. He did not stab it. He held it against his heart. He felt the cold. He felt the sharpness. He felt the truth.

"It hurts," he said.

"Yes."

"I want it to stop."

"It will not stop. It is the house. It is the glass. It is the blood."

He closed his eyes. He held the shard tighter. The pressure increased. The pain increased. The truth increased.

He opened his eyes. He looked at Margaret. His eyes were clear. The grey was gone. The brown was gone. The war was gone.

He smiled. It was a small, sad smile. A smile of acceptance. A smile of release.

"I am the shard," he said.

"No," Margaret said. "You are the one who holds it."

He looked at the mirror. The reflection was still broken. The blood was still there. The crack was still there.

But it was clean.

He put the shard down. He placed it on the mantel. Beside the clock. Beside the dust.

The clock ticked. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The fog rolled in. The fog swallowed the street. The fog swallowed the world.

Margaret picked up the cloth. She began to dust the shelf. Left. Right. Left. Right.

The house stood. The glass was broken. The blood was dry. The silence was full.

She wiped the dust from the glass. She wiped the dust from the mirror. She wiped the dust from the truth.

And the mirror reflected the room. It reflected the house. It reflected the ghost. It reflected the life.

It was not whole. It was not perfect. It was not clean.

It was real.