The dream was white.

Not the white of snow. Not the white of paper.

A blinding, absolute void.

I stood in it.

My feet were bare.

The ground was cold.

Ice?

No.

Stone.

Smooth.

Featureless.

In my hand, I held the chalice.

It was made of glass.

Thin.

Translucent.

Pale.

I could see the veins in my palm through the side.

The glass was perfect.

No flaws.

No cracks.

I lifted it.

My arm shook.

The weight was immense.

Heavier than lead.

Heavier than stone.

I raised it to my lips.

I drank.

The water was hot.

Burned my tongue.

Tasted of ash.

Tasted of iron.

I coughed.

The glass slipped.

It fell.

Time stopped.

I watched it drop.

Slow.

Slow.

Slow.

It hit the floor.

It did not break.

It bounced.

Once.

Twice.

It rolled.

Stopped.

Upright.

Untouched.

I stared.

Confusion.

Dread.

I picked it up.

It was warm.

I looked inside.

Empty.

Dry.

I looked at the floor.

A stain.

Dark.

Spreading.

Like ink.

Like blood.

I woke.

The ceiling was grey.

Damp.

Cracked.

I lay in the narrow bed.

The air smelled of mildew.

And salt.

I sat up.

My heart hammered.

A drum.

A war drum.

I looked at the table.

The chalice was there.

Real.

Not glass.

Porcelain.

White.

With a blue rim.

Intact.

I reached for it.

My hand hovered.

Trembling.

I touched the rim.

Cold.

Smooth.

I picked it up.

Light.

So light.

I carried it to the window.

The city below was grey.

London.

Always grey.

The fog rolled in.

Thick.

Choking.

The year was 1948.

But the streets looked old.

Older.

Like stone.

Like the floor in the dream.

I am an investigator.

For the Bureau.

We do not deal in men.

We deal in objects.

In things that should not be.

I am Dr. Arthur Penhaligon.

I have worked for thirty years.

I have seen many things.

I have held many objects.

None have hurt me.

None have haunted me.

Except this one.

The chalice was found in the cellar of a dead man.

Silas Vane.

He died last week.

Alone.

In his bed.

No cause.

No note.

Just the chalice.

Beneath the floorboards.

Wrapped in oilcloth.

I brought it to the lab.

The lab is cold.

Steel.

Glass.

Silence.

I placed the chalice on the table.

I put on my gloves.

White cotton.

Thin.

I lifted the chalice.

I examined it.

The blue rim was chipped.

One small flake.

Missing.

I frowned.

I had not seen the chip before.

I looked closer.

The chip was on the inside.

Hidden.

I turned the chalice over.

The bottom was stamped.

*V. 1890.*

Vane died in 1948.

The chalice was from 1890.

A coincidence.

Or a clue.

I called for my assistant.

Mr. Thomas Bradshaw.

He entered.

He was young.

Quiet.

He watched me.

Always watched me.

He was a witness.

A mirror.

"Arthur," he said.

His voice was soft.

"Did you sleep?"

"No," I said.

"I had a dream."

"What kind of dream?"

"A white room."

"A broken glass."

"No."

"A whole glass."

He nodded.

He did not ask more.

He never asked more.

He just watched.

I turned back to the chalice.

I needed to test it.

I filled it with water.

From the tap.

Clear.

Cold.

I raised it to my lips.

I drank.

The water tasted of ash.

Of iron.

I coughed.

The chalice slipped.

I caught it.

My hand shook.

The water splashed.

On the table.

A dark stain.

Spreading.

Like ink.

Like blood.

I stared at the stain.

My breath came in short gasps.

"Arthur," Bradshaw said.

He was behind me.

Close.

Too close.

"What is it?"

"I don't know."

"Is it safe?"

"I don't know."

He looked at the chalice.

His eyes were wide.

Afraid.

"Put it down," he said.

I did.

I put it on the table.

I stepped back.

My heart was still racing.

"Arthur," Bradshaw said.

"I know who Silas Vane was."

I looked at him.

"You do?"

"Yes."

"Tell me."

"He was a collector."

"Of what?"

"Of mirrors."

I frowned.

"Mirrors?"

"Yes."

"Broken mirrors?"

"Yes."

I looked at the chalice.

The blue rim.

The chip.

"Mirrors break," Bradshaw said.

"Things break."

"Is that a metaphor?"

"It is a fact."

I felt a chill.

Not from the air.

From the object.

"Vane collected broken things," Bradshaw said.

"Cracked cups. Shattered plates. Broken watches."

"He kept them."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"I will ask the police."

"Arthur."

"What?"

"Be careful."

I left the lab.

I went to the archive.

The archive is in the basement.

Dark.

Dusty.

I searched for Vane.

His file was thin.

Three pages.

Name.

Address.

Death.

No criminal record.

No family.

No friends.

Just the chalice.

I sat at my desk.

I stared at the file.

The paper was yellow.

Aged.

I turned to the last page.

A photograph.

Vane, standing in a room.

The room was white.

The walls were bare.

In his hand, he held a chalice.

White.

Blue rim.

He was smiling.

His eyes were empty.

I felt a pain.

In my chest.

Sharp.

Hot.

I knew him.

I did not know him.

But I knew him.

I closed the file.

I went to my office.

My wife was there.

Eleanor.

She was sitting in the chair.

By the window.

She was reading.

A book.

I do not know what book.

She looked up.

Her face was pale.

"You look tired," she said.

"I am tired."

"Have you eaten?"

"No."

"Eat something."

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"I am afraid."

She closed the book.

She stood up.

She came to me.

She took my hand.

Her hand was warm.

Soft.

"Arthur," she said.

"What is wrong?"

"I found something."

"What?"

"A chalice."

"A chalice?"

"Yes."

"Is it dangerous?"

"Yes."

"Can you destroy it?"

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"It is not mine."

"It is Vane's."

"Yes."

"Give it to the police."

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"It is not the police's."

She looked at me.

Her eyes were sad.

"Arthur, you are sick."

"I am not sick."

"You are obsessed."

"I am investigating."

"You are losing yourself."

I pulled my hand away.

I turned to the window.

The fog was thicker.

The streetlights were on.

Orange.

Dim.

"I must go," I said.

"Where?"

"To the city."

"Tonight?"

"Yes."

"Arthur."

I did not turn back.

I left the office.

I walked into the street.

The city was quiet.

The fog swallowed the lights.

I walked.

I walked for hours.

I did not know where I was going.

I knew.

I was going to the old district.

The district of stone.

The district of ghosts.

I reached the square.

The square was empty.

The fountain was dry.

The statue was broken.

A head.

Rolling in the mud.

I saw a light.

In a window.

Up.

Second floor.

I climbed the stairs.

The door was open.

I entered.

The room was white.

The walls were bare.

In the center, a table.

On the table, a chalice.

White.

Blue rim.

Whole.

Untouched.

I reached for it.

My hand stopped.

A voice.

Behind me.

"Sit down, Arthur."

I turned.

A man sat in a chair.

Old.

Thin.

His eyes were white.

Blank.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"I am you."

He smiled.

"I am the one who broke the glass."

I stared.

"You are not real."

"I am the truth."

"The truth is that it is whole."

"The truth is that it is broken."

I looked at the chalice.

It was whole.

But I saw the crack.

In my mind.

In my heart.

A pale fracture.

Running through me.

"You cannot fix it," the man said.

"You cannot save it."

"You cannot save yourself."

I felt the weight.

The immense weight.

The chalice was in my hand.

Heavy.

Hot.

I raised it.

I drank.

The water was ash.

The water was iron.

I coughed.

The chalice slipped.

It fell.

Time stopped.

I watched it drop.

Slow.

Slow.

Slow.

It hit the floor.

It broke.

Shards.

White.

Blue.

Flying.

Cutting the air.

Cutting me.

I felt the pain.

Sharp.

Clean.

I looked at the man.

He was gone.

The room was empty.

I looked at the floor.

The shards were gone.

The stain was gone.

The room was white.

I was alone.

I walked out.

The fog was lifting.

The sun was rising.

Pale.

Weak.

I walked home.

My office.

My wife.

Bradshaw.

I entered the lab.

The table was empty.

No chalice.

No stain.

No file.

Bradshaw was there.

He looked at me.

"Arthur," he said.

"You are back."

"Yes."

"Did you find it?"

"Yes."

"Is it safe?"

"Yes."

"Can you destroy it?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"I let it go."

He nodded.

He picked up his coat.

He left.

I sat at my desk.

I looked at my hands.

They were clean.

Dry.

I touched my chest.

The pain was gone.

But the fracture remained.

In my mind.

In my heart.

A pale line.

White.

Blue.

I went to my office.

Eleanor was there.

She was reading.

She looked up.

"You look better," she said.

"I am better."

"Have you eaten?"

"Yes."

"Eat something."

"I am full."

She smiled.

She went back to her book.

I sat beside her.

I held her hand.

Her hand was warm.

Soft.

I closed my eyes.

I dreamed.

The white room.

The chalice.

Whole.

Untouched.

I lifted it.

I drank.

The water was clear.

The water was cold.

The chalice did not break.

It did not fall.

I held it.

I held it forever.

The white light faded.

The grey ceiling returned.

I opened my eyes.

The sun was high.

The day was long.

I was alive.

The chalice was gone.

The truth was hidden.

The fracture was mine.

I would carry it.

Always.