The wind has a taste here. It tastes of iron and old rain. You know this because you have walked for three days without stopping. Your boots are worn thin. The leather tears at the toe. You do not feel the cold anymore. You only feel the weight of what is in your satchel. It is heavy. It presses against your ribs with every step.

You are walking away from the village. The trees are black against the grey sky. They stand in rows like silent judges. You do not look back. Looking back is a waste of breath. You are a stranger to this land now. You were born here, yes, but the names have changed. The laws have changed. The face of the thing that watches you has changed.

You carry a mirror. It is not a common mirror. It is framed in silver that has tarnished to the color of bruised skin. The glass is thick. It is old. It came from the house of your grandmother. She was a woman of few words. She kept her secrets in the silver. She told you once, when you were small, that the glass showed the truth of the soul. Not the face. The soul.

You remember her hands. They were rough. They smelled of soap and lye. She polished the frame every night. She never let the dust settle. She said dust was the breath of the dead. If it settled on the silver, the dead would speak. You did not understand then. You understand now. The dead are speaking. They are speaking through the wind. They are speaking through the mud. They are speaking through the silence that follows your footsteps.

You stop at the edge of the forest. The path ends here. Beyond the trees is the wilderness. It is not empty. It is full. It is full of eyes. You can feel them. They are not animal eyes. They are not human eyes. They are something else. Something that has no name. The pressure source is there. It is not a monster. It is not a ghost. It is a force. It is a hunger. It has been waiting for you. It has been waiting for anyone who carries a piece of the past into the unknown.

You open the satchel. Your fingers are numb. You pull out the mirror. The light is dim. The sky is closing in. You hold the mirror up. You do not look at your reflection. You look at the trees. You look at the dark spaces between the branches.

The glass is cold. It feels alive. It vibrates against your palm. You see a shape in the tree line. It is tall. It is thin. It has no face. It has only a mouth. A wide, white mouth. It does not move. It does not need to move. It is always there. It is the shadow that follows the sun. It is the debt that cannot be paid.

You speak to it. Your voice is dry. It cracks like old wood.

"I am here," you say.

The shape does not answer. It does not need to answer. Its presence is an answer. It is a question. It asks what you are willing to give. It asks what you are willing to lose. It asks if you are ready to break.

You remember the village. You remember the square. You remember the people. They looked at you with pity. They did not know what you carried. They did not know what was in the satchel. They thought you were just a fool. They thought you were just leaving. They did not know that you were running from the mirror. They did not know that the mirror had shown them the truth.

The truth was ugly. The truth was that they were afraid. The truth was that they had sold their souls for bread. The truth was that they had forgotten how to dream. The mirror showed their fear. It showed their smallness. It showed their emptiness. They could not bear it. They turned on you. They said you were cursed. They said the mirror was a demon. They said you must throw it away.

You did not throw it away. You could not. It was the last thing that was real. It was the last thing that was yours. You took it and you ran. You ran until your legs gave out. You ran until the village was a memory. You ran until you were alone.

The shape in the tree line moves. It takes a step. The ground shakes. A single leaf falls. It lands on your boot. You do not brush it off. You let it stay. It is a sign. It is a warning.

The hunger is close. It is in your throat. It is in your chest. It is in the silver frame. The mirror is hot now. It burns your hand. You do not let go. You hold it tighter. The heat is a pain. The pain is a truth.

You think of your love. You think of the cause. You think of the ideal that burned in your heart. You loved the idea of a world without fear. You loved the idea of a world without lies. You loved it so much that it consumed you. It ate your rest. It ate your sanity. It ate your hope. You gave everything to the idea. You gave your time. You gave your energy. You gave your self.

And now you are here. Alone. With a mirror that burns. With a hunger that waits.

The shape is closer. It is ten paces away. Five paces. You can see the teeth. They are white. They are sharp. They are waiting to tear.

You look at the mirror. You look at your own face. For the first time, you look at your own face. Your eyes are dark. Your lips are pale. Your hair is wild. You look like a ghost. You look like the thing in the tree line.

You realize the truth. The mirror is not a tool. The mirror is a trap. The mirror is the enemy. The mirror is the cause of your exile. The mirror is the thing that showed the village their fear. The mirror is the thing that made you an outcast. The mirror is the thing that draws the hunger.

The hunger is not external. The hunger is internal. The hunger is the desire to see. The hunger is the desire to know. The hunger is the desire to be seen. You have fed the hunger. You have fed it with your curiosity. You have fed it with your pride. You have fed it with your love for the truth.

And now the hunger is full. And now the hunger is angry. And now the hunger is hungry for more.

You look at the silver frame. You look at the thick glass. You look at the reflection of the shape in the glass. The shape in the glass is smiling. It is not a human smile. It is a wide, white smile. It is a smile of satisfaction. It is a smile of victory.

You understand. You cannot fight the hunger. You cannot outwalk the hunger. You cannot outthink the hunger. The hunger is part of you. The hunger is the mirror. The mirror is the hunger.

You close your eyes. You breathe in. You breathe out. You feel the heat of the mirror. You feel the cold of the wind. You feel the weight of the past.

You open your eyes. You hold the mirror up. You hold it to the light. The light is fading. The sky is black. The trees are black. The shape is black.

You raise the mirror high. You raise it above your head. You raise it until your arms are tired. You raise it until your muscles scream.

You look at the shape. You look at the hunger. You look at the truth.

You smile. You do not smile with your mouth. You smile with your soul. You smile with your spirit. You smile with your will.

You bring the mirror down. You bring it down slowly. You bring it down with care. You bring it down with love.

You strike the mirror against the rock.

The sound is sharp. The sound is clear. The sound is final.

The glass breaks.

Shards fly. They catch the last light. They spark. They glitter. They are beautiful. They are deadly.

The shape in the tree line gasps. It recoils. It steps back. It steps back into the dark. It steps back into the silence.

The hunger is broken. The mirror is broken. The truth is broken.

You stand in the ruins. You stand in the silence. You stand in the cold.

You look at the shards on the ground. They are scattered. They are sharp. They are dangerous.

You do not pick them up. You do not try to fix it. You do not try to repair it.

You leave them. You leave the truth in the mud. You leave the past in the dark.

You turn away. You begin to walk. You walk away from the rock. You walk away from the forest. You walk away from the hunger.

You walk into the wilderness. You walk into the unknown. You walk into the future.

Your satchel is empty. It is light. It is free.

Your hands are empty. They are open. They are ready.

Your heart is heavy. But it is not broken. It is whole. It is yours.

You walk. You do not look back. You do not look down. You do not look up. You look forward. You look only forward.

The wind blows. It tastes of iron. It tastes of rain. It tastes of freedom.

You are no longer a fugitive. You are no longer a fool. You are no longer a carrier of the past.

You are just a man. You are just a soul. You are just a walker.

You walk on. The path is long. The road is hard. The night is deep.

But you are alive. You are free. You are whole.

The shards lie in the dark. They wait. They watch. They remember.

But you do not remember. You let go. You let go of the truth. You let go of the fear. You let go of the love that consumed you.

You let go.

And in the letting go, you find peace. Not a loud peace. Not a bright peace. A quiet peace. A deep peace. A peace that comes from the bottom of the soul.

You walk. The trees pass. The shadows pass. The night passes.

And you remain.