The house stood on the hill like a bone.

It was stone. It was old. The wind hit it. The stone held.

Elias lived there. He was a clerk. He worked for the Lord. He counted grain. He counted sheep. He counted coins. His hands were dry. His back was bent. He was not important. He was furniture in his own life.

The house had a mirror.

It hung in the hall. It was large. The glass was dark. It did not reflect light. It reflected time.

Elias saw it every day. He walked past. He did not look. He looked at the floor. The floor was dust. The dust was gray. He swept it. He swept it every day. The dust came back.

He was poor. He was hungry. The soup was thin. The bread was hard. He ate. He did not complain. He ate because he had to live. Living was a duty. Duty was a chain. The chain was heavy.

One night, he stopped.

He was alone. The fire died. The shadows grew. He looked up. He looked at the mirror.

The glass was clear.

It was not his face.

It was a man. The man was him. But the man was not tired. The man was not hungry. The man was standing in a field. The field was gold. The sun was high. The man was young. The man was free.

Elias blinked.

The image was gone.

The hall was dark.

He went to bed.

He did not sleep.

He lay on the straw. He listened to the wind. The wind scratched at the window. The window was broken. The glass was cold. He pulled the blanket up. The blanket was thin. It smelled of smoke. It smelled of sweat.

He remembered the mirror.

He waited for morning.

Morning came.

The sun was pale. The light was weak. Elias stood up. His legs shook. He walked to the hall. He looked at the mirror.

It was dark again.

It was just glass.

He turned away.

He went to work.

The Lord’s manor was across the valley. The road was long. The road was steep. Elias walked. His shoes were worn. The leather cracked. The cold seeped in. He did not stop. Stopping was weakness. Weakness was death.

He arrived at the manor. The doors were oak. The doors were heavy. He pushed them open. The air inside was warm. The air smelled of wax. It smelled of power.

He bowed. He counted.

He counted the sacks of flour. He counted the barrels of wine. He counted the bags of coin. The numbers were endless. The numbers were cold. The numbers were safe.

Safety was a cage.

He worked all day.

At noon, he ate. He sat in the corner. He ate bread. He ate cheese. He did not speak. No one spoke to him. He was a shadow. Shadows do not speak.

At night, he went home.

He walked back up the hill. The dark was total. The stars were out. The stars were far. They were indifferent. He walked. He was tired. His bones ached. His mind was empty.

He entered the house.

He lit the fire.

He looked at the mirror.

It was dark.

He sat by the fire. He waited.

Nothing happened.

Days passed.

Weeks passed.

The hunger grew. The cold grew. The silence grew. Elias became smaller. He became less. He was a ghost in his own house. He moved through the rooms like smoke. He did not touch things. He did not break things. He was careful. Care was a shield.

One evening, the wind was loud.

The door banged. The window rattled. The house shook. Elias held the table. The table was wood. The wood was solid. He held on. He did not let go. Letting go was falling. Falling was ending.

The storm broke.

The house was still.

Elias let go.

His hand trembled.

He looked at the mirror.

The glass was bright.

It was not a reflection.

It was a window.

He saw the field. He saw the gold. He saw the young man. The young man was looking back. The young man had a sword. The sword was bright. The young man was smiling. The smile was cruel.

Elias felt a pull.

It was strong. It was in his chest. It was in his head. It was in his blood. He wanted to go. He wanted to be the man. He wanted the sword. He wanted the gold. He wanted the freedom.

He stepped forward.

His foot hovered.

The air was warm. The air smelled of grass.

He remembered the soup. He remembered the thin bread. He remembered the hard bed. He remembered the Lord’s cold eyes. He remembered the dust.

He wanted to escape.

He stepped into the glass.

It was cold.

It was like ice.

It was like water.

He was in the field.

The grass was soft. The sun was hot. The air was sweet. He looked at his hands. They were young. They were strong. He looked at the sword. It was heavy. It was real.

He laughed.

He ran.

He ran through the gold. He ran toward the horizon. He was free. He was alive. He was the hero.

Then, the ground shook.

The grass turned to ash. The sun turned to blood. The sky turned to black.

The young man was gone.

Elias was alone.

He was in the hall.

He was standing in front of the mirror.

His face was old. His face was gray. His eyes were hollow.

He looked at his hands. They were dry. They were cracked. They were his hands.

He had not moved.

He had never moved.

The glass was dark.

He looked at his reflection.

The reflection looked back.

The reflection was smiling.

The smile was cruel.

Elias stepped back.

He fell.

He hit the floor.

The floor was hard. The floor was stone. He lay there. He breathed. The breath was short. The breath was shallow.

He looked at the ceiling. The ceiling was wood. The wood was old. The wood was rotting.

He understood.

The mirror was not a door.

The mirror was a trap.

The freedom was a lie.

The gold was a poison.

Knowledge was a curse.

To see the other life was to lose this one. To want the escape was to die in the cage.

He was a clerk. He was a man of dust. He was a man of duty.

He got up.

His legs shook. His back ached. He was in pain. The pain was real. The pain was his.

He walked to the sink. He filled a bucket with water. He dipped a cloth. He wrung it out.

He walked to the mirror.

He looked at the glass.

The glass was dark.

He wiped it.

The dust was gone.

The glass was clean.

The glass was empty.

He wiped it again.

He wiped it until his arm hurt. He wiped it until the glass was clear. He wiped it until there was no trace of the field. No trace of the sword. No trace of the gold.

He stopped.

He looked at his own face.

It was gray. It was tired. It was real.

He was alive.

He was here.

He was poor.

He was hungry.

He was safe.

He put the cloth down. He put the bucket down.

He walked to the bedroom.

He lay on the straw.

He pulled the blanket up.

He closed his eyes.

He did not dream.

He slept.

Morning came.

The sun was pale. The light was weak. Elias stood up. His legs were stiff. He walked to the hall. He looked at the mirror.

It was just glass.

It was just a thing.

He turned away.

He went to work.

The road was long. The road was steep. Elias walked. His shoes were worn. The leather cracked. The cold seeped in. He did not stop.

He arrived at the manor. The doors were oak. The doors were heavy. He pushed them open. The air inside was warm. The air smelled of wax. It smelled of power.

He bowed. He counted.

He counted the sacks of flour. He counted the barrels of wine. He counted the bags of coin. The numbers were endless. The numbers were cold. The numbers were safe.

Safety was a cage.

He worked all day.

At noon, he ate. He sat in the corner. He ate bread. He ate cheese. He did not speak. No one spoke to him. He was a shadow. Shadows do not speak.

At night, he went home.

He walked back up the hill. The dark was total. The stars were out. The stars were far. They were indifferent. He walked. He was tired. His bones ached. His mind was quiet.

He entered the house.

He lit the fire.

He looked at the mirror.

It was dark.

He sat by the fire. He waited.

Nothing happened.

He knew the truth.

The truth was heavy. The truth was cold. The truth was his.

He did not want to know. He did not want to see. He did not want to be free.

He wanted to be here.

He wanted to be this.

He wanted to be small.

Smallness was a shield. Smallness was a home.

He closed his eyes.

He listened to the wind.

The wind scratched at the window. The window was broken. The glass was cold. He pulled the blanket up. The blanket was thin. It smelled of smoke. It smelled of sweat.

He was alive.

He was here.

He was safe.

The fire died.

The dark grew.

Elias slept.

He did not wake up.

The house stood on the hill. The stone held. The wind hit it. The wind did not stop. The house did not move. The dust settled. The dust covered the floor. The dust covered the bed. The dust covered the mirror.

The glass was dark.

The glass was empty.

The glass was quiet.

The house was empty.

The hill was quiet.

The world turned.

The world did not care.

The world went on.

The dust remained.