You wake in the grey light of a city that breathes. The air tastes of copper and old rain. You are seven. Or perhaps you are older. Time here is a liquid, pooling in the corners of the room, sticky and sweet. You look at your hands. They are small. They are trembling. You do not remember your name. You only remember the hunger. It is not for bread. It is not for water. It is for the Gold.

The city is a labyrinth of glass and steel, but the streets are paved with something soft, like moss. The buildings lean in, whispering. You walk. Your feet make no sound. The people around you are blurred, smears of color moving in slow motion. They do not see you. They are waiting for something else.

You find the door. It is red. It is open. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of honey and rot. This is the place. The ritual hall. You have been here before, in the dreams, in the spaces between breaths. You know the path. You follow it.

There is a table. On the table, there is a bowl. In the bowl, there is the Gold. It shines. It pulses. It is alive. It is the only thing in the world that is real.

You reach for it.

Your brother is there.

He sits in the corner, watching. He is your brother. You know this. You know his face. It is your face, but older. He has your eyes. He has your silence. He does not move. He does not speak. He watches you with a stillness that hurts.

"Give it to me," you say. Your voice is small. It breaks the air.

He does not answer. He smiles. It is a sad smile. A knowing smile.

"I cannot," he says. His voice is deep. It is the voice of the city.

"Then give it to him," you say. You point to the empty chair across from you. "Give it to him and I will take my place."

Your brother shakes his head. "There is no him. There is only you. And there is only this."

You look at the Gold. It calls to you. It promises you everything. It promises you that you will never be hungry again. It promises you that you will never be alone. It promises you that you will be free.

You reach for it again. Your fingers touch the rim of the bowl. The Gold is warm. It is soft. It feels like skin.

"Wait," your brother says.

You stop.

"Look at me," he says.

You look at him. You see the truth in his eyes. It is a terrible truth. It is a heavy truth. It is the truth that you have been running from.

"I am you," he says. "And you are me. And we are the Gold."

You pull your hand back. The warmth lingers. It burns.

"No," you say. "No, I am not. I am the one who seeks. You are the one who watches."

"Does it matter?" he asks. "Does the seeker become the sought? Does the watcher become the watched?"

You do not answer. You look at the Gold. It is no longer bright. It is dim. It is fading. It is disappearing.

"I don't want it," you say. The words come out of you like a sob. "I don't want the Gold. I want to go home. I want to be small. I want to be safe."

Your brother stands up. He is tall now. He is huge. He fills the room. He is the city. He is the hunger. He is the fear.

"Home is here," he says. "Safety is here. And the Gold is here. You cannot leave. You are the ritual. You are the offering. You are the price."

You back away. Your feet hit the wall. The wall is soft. It is breathing.

"I am not the price," you say. "I am free."

"Freedom is a cage," he says. "And the Gold is the key. But the key only opens the door from the inside."

He steps forward. He reaches for the bowl. He lifts it. He drinks.

The sound he makes is not a gulp. It is a sigh. It is the sigh of a thousand years. It is the sigh of a city that has finally slept.

The bowl is empty.

The Gold is gone.

The room is dark.

Your brother is gone.

You are alone.

You look at your hands. They are not small anymore. They are large. They are strong. They are stained with gold.

You look at the door. It is closed.

You push it. It does not move.

You kick it. It does not move.

You scream. No one hears you.

You are the Gold now. You are the hunger. You are the waiting. You are the city.

You sit down. You wait.

The light comes. The grey light. The light of the city.

You are seven. Or perhaps you are older. You do not remember. You only remember the hunger. It is not for bread. It is not for water. It is for the Gold.

But there is no Gold. There is only you.

And you are full.

***

You wake in the grey light of a city that breathes. The air tastes of copper and old rain. You are twenty. Or perhaps you are older. Time here is a liquid, pooling in the corners of the room, sticky and sweet. You look at your hands. They are large. They are trembling. You do not remember your name. You only remember the hunger. It is not for bread. It is not for water. It is for the Gold.

The city is a labyrinth of glass and steel, but the streets are paved with something soft, like moss. The buildings lean in, whispering. You walk. Your feet make no sound. The people around you are blurred, smears of color moving in slow motion. They do not see you. They are waiting for something else.

You find the door. It is red. It is open. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of honey and rot. This is the place. The ritual hall. You have been here before, in the dreams, in the spaces between breaths. You know the path. You follow it.

There is a table. On the table, there is a bowl. In the bowl, there is the Gold. It shines. It pulses. It is alive. It is the only thing in the world that is real.

You reach for it.

Your brother is there.

He sits in the corner, watching. He is your brother. You know this. You know his face. It is your face, but older. He has your eyes. He has your silence. He does not move. He does not speak. He watches you with a stillness that hurts.

"Give it to me," you say. Your voice is small. It breaks the air.

He does not answer. He smiles. It is a sad smile. A knowing smile.

"I cannot," he says. His voice is deep. It is the voice of the city.

"Then give it to him," you say. You point to the empty chair across from you. "Give it to him and I will take my place."

Your brother shakes his head. "There is no him. There is only you. And there is only this."

You look at the Gold. It calls to you. It promises you everything. It promises you that you will never be hungry again. It promises you that you will never be alone. It promises you that you will be free.

You reach for it again. Your fingers touch the rim of the bowl. The Gold is warm. It is soft. It feels like skin.

"Wait," your brother says.

You stop.

"Look at me," he says.

You look at him. You see the truth in his eyes. It is a terrible truth. It is a heavy truth. It is the truth that you have been running from.

"I am you," he says. "And you are me. And we are the Gold."

You pull your hand back. The warmth lingers. It burns.

"No," you say. "No, I am not. I am the one who seeks. You are the one who watches."

"Does it matter?" he asks. "Does the seeker become the sought? Does the watcher become the watched?"

You do not answer. You look at the Gold. It is no longer bright. It is dim. It is fading. It is disappearing.

"I don't want it," you say. The words come out of you like a sob. "I don't want the Gold. I want to go home. I want to be small. I want to be safe."

Your brother stands up. He is tall now. He is huge. He fills the room. He is the city. He is the hunger. He is the fear.

"Home is here," he says. "Safety is here. And the Gold is here. You cannot leave. You are the ritual. You are the offering. You are the price."

You back away. Your feet hit the wall. The wall is soft. It is breathing.

"I am not the price," you say. "I am free."

"Freedom is a cage," he says. "And the Gold is the key. But the key only opens the door from the inside."

He steps forward. He reaches for the bowl. He lifts it. He drinks.

The sound he makes is not a gulp. It is a sigh. It is the sigh of a thousand years. It is the sigh of a city that has finally slept.

The bowl is empty.

The Gold is gone.

The room is dark.

Your brother is gone.

You are alone.

You look at your hands. They are not small anymore. They are large. They are strong. They are stained with gold.

You look at the door. It is closed.

You push it. It does not move.

You kick it. It does not move.

You scream. No one hears you.

You are the Gold now. You are the hunger. You are the waiting. You are the city.

You sit down. You wait.

The light comes. The grey light. The light of the city.

You are twenty. Or perhaps you are older. You do not remember. You only remember the hunger. It is not for bread. It is not for water. It is for the Gold.

But there is no Gold. There is only you.

And you are full.

***

You wake in the grey light of a city that breathes. The air tastes of copper and old rain. You are thirty. Or perhaps you are older. Time here is a liquid, pooling in the corners of the room, sticky and sweet. You look at your hands. They are large. They are trembling. You do not remember your name. You only remember the hunger. It is not for bread. It is not for water. It is for the Gold.

The city is a labyrinth of glass and steel, but the streets are paved with something soft, like moss. The buildings lean in, whispering. You walk. Your feet make no sound. The people around you are blurred, smears of color moving in slow motion. They do not see you. They are waiting for something else.

You find the door. It is red. It is open. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of honey and rot. This is the place. The ritual hall. You have been here before, in the dreams, in the spaces between breaths. You know the path. You follow it.

There is a table. On the table, there is a bowl. In the bowl, there is the Gold. It shines. It pulses. It is alive. It is the only thing in the world that is real.

You reach for it.

Your brother is there.

He sits in the corner, watching. He is your brother. You know this. You know his face. It is your face, but older. He has your eyes. He has your silence. He does not move. He does not speak. He watches you with a stillness that hurts.

"Give it to me," you say. Your voice is small. It breaks the air.

He does not answer. He smiles. It is a sad smile. A knowing smile.

"I cannot," he says. His voice is deep. It is the voice of the city.

"Then give it to him," you say. You point to the empty chair across from you. "Give it to him and I will take my place."

Your brother shakes his head. "There is no him. There is only you. And there is only this."

You look at the Gold. It calls to you. It promises you everything. It promises you that you will never be hungry again. It promises you that you will never be alone. It promises you that you will be free.

You reach for it again. Your fingers touch the rim of the bowl. The Gold is warm. It is soft. It feels like skin.

"Wait," your brother says.

You stop.

"Look at me," he says.

You look at him. You see the truth in his eyes. It is a terrible truth. It is a heavy truth. It is the truth that you have been running from.

"I am you," he says. "And you are me. And we are the Gold."

You pull your hand back. The warmth lingers. It burns.

"No," you say. "No, I am not. I am the one who seeks. You are the one who watches."

"Does it matter?" he asks. "Does the seeker become the sought? Does the watcher become the watched?"

You do not answer. You look at the Gold. It is no longer bright. It is dim. It is fading. It is disappearing.

"I don't want it," you say. The words come out of you like a sob. "I don't want the Gold. I want to go home. I want to be small. I want to be safe."

Your brother stands up. He is tall now. He is huge. He fills the room. He is the city. He is the hunger. He is the fear.

"Home is here," he says. "Safety is here. And the Gold is here. You cannot leave. You are the ritual. You are the offering. You are the price."

You back away. Your feet hit the wall. The wall is soft. It is breathing.

"I am not the price," you say. "I am free."

"Freedom is a cage," he says. "And the Gold is the key. But the key only opens the door from the inside."

He steps forward. He reaches for the bowl. He lifts it. He drinks.

The sound he makes is not a gulp. It is a sigh. It is the sigh of a thousand years. It is the sigh of a city that has finally slept.

The bowl is empty.

The Gold is gone.

The room is dark.

Your brother is gone.

You are alone.

You look at your hands. They are not small anymore. They are large. They are strong. They are stained with gold.

You look at the door. It is closed.

You push it. It does not move.

You kick it. It does not move.

You scream. No one hears you.

You are the Gold now. You are the hunger. You are the waiting. You are the city.

You sit down. You wait.

The light comes. The grey light. The light of the city.

You are thirty. Or perhaps you are older. You do not remember. You only remember the hunger. It is not for bread. It is not for water. It is for the Gold.

But there is no Gold. There is only you.

And you are full.