The jar sits on the windowsill. It is thick glass, amber-colored, and heavy in your hands. Inside, the substance glows. It is not light, exactly. It is a hum. A low, thrumming vibration that you can feel in your teeth. You have kept it there for three years. You have told no one what it is. You have told no one why you keep it.

The house is old. The walls breathe. In the winter, they contract and creak. In the summer, they expand and sweat. You live in the house. Your brother, Thomas, lives in the town below. He visits every Sunday. He brings food. He brings news. He brings his silence.

You are the keeper. You are the one who knows. You have known since you were a boy, before the war, before the roads were paved. You know how to listen to the soil. You know how to hear the sickness in the grain. You know how to taste the fear in the water. This is your gift. This is your burden. You do not speak of it. To speak of it is to break the seal. To break the seal is to let the thing out. And the thing is hungry.

Thomas stands in the kitchen doorway. He is tall. He is thin. His face is pale, like dough left too long in the sun. He holds a bag of apples. The red skin is waxy and bright.

"Margaret," he says.

You do not turn around. You are scrubbing the floor. The water is cold. It soaks through your shoes. You can feel the grit of the sand under your feet. It is a good feeling. It is real.

"Margaret," he says again. His voice is soft. It is the voice he uses when he is afraid.

You stop scrubbing. You wring out the cloth. The water drips onto the tile. Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Thomas," you say.

He steps into the kitchen. He sets the bag of apples on the table. The apples roll slightly. They look so alive. They look so innocent.

"We need to talk," he says.

"About what?"

"You know."

You look at the jar on the windowsill. The glow pulses. Once. Twice. It is slower now. It is tired.

"No," you say.

Thomas walks to the window. He looks out at the garden. The grass is yellow. The trees are bare. The sky is the color of old iron.

"Father is gone," Thomas says.

You know this. You have known for a week. The soil told you. The dirt was cold. The roots were dry. You felt the absence before the body was found. You felt the space where he had been. It was a hole in the world.

"Who found him?" you ask.

" The neighbors," Thomas says. "Old Mrs. Gable. She said he was sitting in his chair. He was smiling. He looked peaceful."

You close your eyes. You try to remember his face. You try to remember the smell of his pipe tobacco. It is gone. The scent is gone. Only the memory remains. And the memory is a lie. It is a soft, warm lie.

"Thomas," you say. "Did you tell them?"

"Tell them what?"

"The truth."

He turns to look at you. His eyes are wide. They are wet.

"What truth, Margaret?"

You look at the jar. The glow is brighter now. It is angry. It wants out. It wants to feed.

"You know," you say.

"No," he says. "I don't know. I am not you. I am not a witch. I am a man. I have a life. I have debts. I have a name. I want to be left alone. I want to be normal."

He says the word normal. He says it like a prayer. He says it like a curse.

"You are not normal," you say. "None of us are normal. We are all carrying something. We are all holding something back."

He laughs. It is a short, sharp sound. It does not reach his eyes.

"You are insane," he says. "You have been insane for years. You sit in this house. You talk to the walls. You keep that thing on the windowsill. What is it? What is it doing there?"

You walk to the window. You pick up the jar. It is warm. It is alive. You can feel the pulse of it against your palm. It is your heart. It is your soul. It is the part of you that does not fit.

"It is a remedy," you say.

"For what?"

"For the sickness."

Thomas steps closer. He smells of rain and dust. He smells of the town. He smells of everything you are not.

"There is no sickness," he says. "There is no magic. There is no power. There is only this house. There is only this land. And there is you. And you are wrong. You have been wrong all along."

You look at him. You want to believe him. You want to believe that the hum is just the wind. You want to believe that the soil is just dirt. You want to believe that your brother is just a man. But you cannot. You know what you are. You know what you have done. You know what you have kept.

"Let me see it," Thomas says.

His voice is hard. It is the voice of the town. It is the voice of the law. It is the voice of fear.

You hold the jar out to him.

He takes it. His hands shake. He holds it up to the light. He looks inside. He sees the glow. He sees the hum. He sees the truth.

And he drops it.

The jar falls. It hits the floor. It shatters. The glass explodes into a thousand pieces. The amber substance spills out. It flows across the tile. It spreads like blood. It spreads like ink. It flows toward your feet. It flows toward his.

You freeze. Thomas freezes. The air is still. The silence is loud.

The substance pools at your feet. It is warm. It is wet. It is alive.

"Margaret," Thomas says. His voice is small. It is broken. "What have you done?"

You look at the pool. You look at the glass. You look at your brother. You see the fear in his eyes. You see the hatred. You see the relief.

You have always known this would happen. You have always known that the seal would break. You have always known that the truth would come out. You have always known that you could not keep it. You have always known that you were not strong enough.

You reach down. You pick up a piece of glass. It cuts your hand. The blood wells up. It is red. It is bright. It drops into the amber pool. It mixes with the glow. The color changes. It becomes dark. It becomes deep. It becomes the color of the earth.

Thomas backs away. He leans against the wall. He slides down to the floor. He covers his face with his hands.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm so sorry."

You do not answer. You stand there. You hold the piece of glass. You feel the pain. It is sharp. It is clear. It is the only thing that is real.

You look at the pool. It is growing. It is flowing toward the door. It is flowing toward the world. It is going to feed. It is going to change things. It is going to make them see what they are.

You are not a witch. You are not a healer. You are not a monster. You are a sister. You are a keeper. You are a part of the family. And the family is broken. And the family is hungry.

You let go of the glass. It falls. It makes a small sound. It is the sound of the end.

Thomas stands up. He looks at you. His eyes are clear. They are empty. He does not see you anymore. He sees the thing. He sees the danger. He sees the betrayal.

He turns. He walks out of the kitchen. He walks out of the house. He does not look back.

You are alone.

You look at the pool. It is almost at the door. It is waiting. It is patient.

You pick up the rag. You start to wipe the floor. You wipe the amber. You wipe the blood. You wipe the glass. You scrub until the floor is clean. You scrub until the water is dark. You scrub until your hands are raw.

You do not stop. You cannot stop. You must clean it up. You must make it right. You must hide it. You must bury it.

But it is too late. The smell is in the air. The taste is in the mouth. The hum is in the bones.

You stop scrubbing. You lean against the counter. You breathe. The air is cold. The air is still.

You look out the window. The town is below. The lights are on. The people are sleeping. They do not know. They do not care. They are safe. They are normal.

You are not safe. You are not normal.

You are the keeper.

You are the one who knows.

And you are alone.

The sun rises. The light comes in. It touches the clean floor. It touches the empty windowsill. It touches you.

You are still here.

The jar is gone.

The glow is gone.

But the hum remains.

It is in your chest.

It is in your blood.

It is in your brother.

It is in the town.

It is in the world.

You are not a witch.

You are a woman.

You are a sister.

You are a keeper.

And you have let go.

The house is quiet.

The house is empty.

The house is yours.