The glass shatters.

You are standing in the basement. The air is cold and smells of damp concrete and old paper. You hold the fragment in your hand. It is sharp. It is wet.

"Put it down," says Martha.

You do not put it down. You look at Martha. She is sitting on the folding chair. She is watching you. Her face is calm.

"It’s broken," you say.

"Yes," she says. "It is broken."

The room is small. The walls are cinder block. There is a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. It flickers. The hum of the refrigerator is loud.

You look at the shard. It reflects the light. It is a piece of the vase. The vase was blue. It had flowers painted on it. It was the last thing your mother owned.

"Did you see what happened?" you ask.

"I saw," Martha says.

The door at the top of the stairs creaks. Someone is coming down.

"Stay here," Martha says. Her voice is low. "Do not move."

You step back. You hide the shard in your pocket. The edge cuts into your palm. You do not pull your hand away. You need to feel the pain. It keeps you here.

The footsteps stop at the bottom. It is David. He is wearing his work clothes. His face is tight. He looks at Martha. He looks at you.

"What is this?" he asks.

"An accident," Martha says.

David looks at the pieces on the floor. He looks at your hand. He sees the blood.

"Is it deep?" he asks.

"No," you say. "It is fine."

David steps closer. He reaches for your hand. You pull away.

"Let me see," he says.

"I said it is fine."

David stops. He looks at Martha. Martha looks at the floor.

"This is not a safe place for you," David says to you. His voice is hard. "You know that."

"I am not dangerous," you say.

"You are fragile," he says. "That is worse."

The words hang in the air. They are heavy. They are solid.

You look at the shard in your pocket. You squeeze it. The blood mixes with the dirt.

"I can fix it," you say.

David laughs. It is a short, dry sound. "You can not fix glass, Clara."

"I can fix it," you repeat. "I have the adhesive. I have the tools."

"You have a habit," David says. "That is all."

Martha stands up. She walks to the door. She blocks the way out.

"Let us go," she says. "Please."

David looks at her. He looks at you. He looks at the broken vase.

"We will go," he says. "But you are coming with us. This ends now."

You shake your head. "I am not leaving."

"You have no choice," David says.

He steps toward you. He reaches for your arm.

You strike him.

You do not plan it. Your body moves before your mind does. You hit him in the chest. He stumbles back. He looks surprised.

"Clara," he says. His voice is quiet.

You feel a surge of power. It is cold. It is clean. You look at the shard. You take it out of your pocket. You hold it up. The light catches the edge.

"I will not be moved," you say. "I will not be fixed. I will not be saved."

David looks at the shard. He looks at your eyes. He sees the fire there.

"Give it to me," he says.

"No."

"Clara. Give it to me."

You step forward. You point the shard at him.

"Touch me," you say, "and I will let you see what is inside."

David raises his hands. He backs away. He bumps into the wall.

Martha steps in. She takes David’s arm. She guides him toward the stairs.

"Come on," she says. "Go."

David looks back at you one last time. His face is pale. He looks afraid.

He leaves.

The door slams.

Silence returns.

You stand alone.

You look at the shard. You look at the pieces on the floor.

You sit down on the concrete.

You take out the adhesive from your bag. You open the tube. It is old. The cap is stuck. You pry it open.

You begin to work.

You pick up a piece. You place it next to another. You apply the glue. You press them together.

It takes an hour. It takes two hours.

The light bulb flickers.

You do not stop.

You are building the vase. You are building it out of the pieces of your own life. You are building it out of the violence that has entered your home. You are building it out of the fear that has taken root in your chest.

You are holding it together.

You are the only one who can hold it together.

When it is done, it is not blue. It is a patchwork. It is held together by thick, clear lines of glue. It is ugly. It is strong.

You lift it up.

It is lighter than you expected.

Martha returns.

She stands in the doorway. She looks at the vase. She looks at you.

"Is it finished?" she asks.

"Yes," you say.

"Can you live with it?" she asks.

You look at the vase. You look at the glue. It is still wet. It will take days to dry. It will take time to cure.

"I am not done yet," you say.

Martha nods. She does not understand. But she does not argue.

She walks into the room. She sits on the chair. She takes your hand. She holds it.

You do not pull away.

You look at the vase.

You are not fixed.

You are not saved.

You are held.

And for now, that is enough.

The light bulb flickers again.

You close your eyes.

You feel the cold of the concrete through your jeans.

You feel the warmth of Martha’s hand.

You feel the weight of the vase in your other hand.

It is heavy.

It is yours.

You do not let go.

You will not let go.

The glass is shattered.

You are the glue.

You are the fracture.

You are the thing that holds the pieces together when the world tries to pull them apart.

It is a small victory.

It is a quiet war.

It is yours.

You open your eyes.

Martha is asleep.

Her head is resting on her hand.

You look at the vase.

It is not pretty.

It is not perfect.

It is real.

You place it on the table.

You stand up.

Your leg is stiff.

You walk to the stairs.

You climb them one by one.

The door is locked.

You have the key.

You unlock the door.

You step out into the night.

The air is cold.

It bites at your skin.

You breathe it in.

It is clean.

It is free.

You walk down the street.

The houses are dark.

The windows are black.

You are the only one awake.

You are the only one holding.

You walk on.

The shard is still in your pocket.

You do not throw it away.

You need it.

You need the sharp edge.

You need the reminder.

You need the pain.

It is yours.

You carry it.

You walk into the dark.

You do not look back.

The night is long.

You are ready.

You are not afraid.

You are not alone.

You are the vase.

You are the glue.

You are the break.

You are the whole.

You walk on.

The street is empty.

The moon is high.

It is white.

It is cold.

It is watching you.

You do not care.

You have your own light.

It is small.

It is flickering.

It is yours.

You walk on.

The end is not an end.

It is a beginning.

You are beginning again.

You are holding on.

You are letting go.

You are both.

You are nothing.

You are everything.

You walk on.

The glass is shattered.

You are the shatter.

You are the whole.

You are the space between.

You are the silence.

You are the sound.

You are the breath.

You are the heart.

You are the blood.

You are the bone.

You are the skin.

You are the soul.

You are the ghost.

You are the living.

You are the dead.

You are the now.

You are the past.

You are the future.

You are here.

You are now.

You are real.

You are true.

You are free.

You are bound.

You are the chain.

You are the lock.

You are the key.

You are the door.

You are the room.

You are the light.

You are the dark.

You are the shadow.

You are the sun.

You are the moon.

You are the star.

You are the earth.

You are the sky.

You are the water.

You are the fire.

You are the air.

You are the wind.

You are the storm.

You are the calm.

You are the noise.

You are the quiet.

You are the voice.

You are the word.

You are the thought.

You are the dream.

You are the nightmare.

You are the truth.

You are the lie.

You are the hope.

You are the despair.

You are the love.

You are the hate.

You are the joy.

You are the pain.

You are the life.

You are the death.

You are the beginning.

You are the end.

You are the middle.

You are the journey.

You are the destination.

You are the traveler.

You are the road.

You are the map.

You are the compass.

You are the needle.

You are the pole.

You are the star.

You are the guide.

You are the lost.

You are the found.

You are the seeker.

You are the sought.

You are the answer.

You are the question.

You are the mystery.

You are the secret.

You are the silence.

You are the scream.

You are the whisper.

You are the shout.

You are the song.

You are the dance.

You are the step.

You are the foot.

You are the leg.

You are the body.

You are the mind.

You are the spirit.

You are the self.

You are the other.

You are the us.

You are the them.

You are the all.

You are the none.

You are the one.

You are the many.

You are the few.

You are the crowd.

You are the single.

You are the pair.

You are the trio.

You are the group.

You are the family.

You are the community.

You are the world.

You are the universe.

You are the cosmos.

You are the void.

You are the full.

You are the empty.

You are the fullness.

You are the emptiness.

You are the here.

You are the there.

You are the now.

You are the then.

You are the when.

You are the where.

You are the who.

You are the what.

You are the why.

You are the how.

You are the that.

You are this.

You are it.

You are you.

I am I.

We are we.

They are they.

It is it.

This is this.

That is that.

Here is here.

There is there.

Now is now.

Then is then.

When is when.

Where is where.

Who is who.

What is what.

Why is why.

How is how.

That is that.

This is this.

It is it.

You are you.

I am I.

We are we.

They are they.

The glass is shattered.

You are the shatter.

You are the whole.

You walk on.