The lamp is broken.

You see it now. The glass is shattered. The wick is blackened. It sits on the table in the center of the room. It has always been there. You just could not see it.

The air is thick. It tastes of copper and old dust. The walls breathe. They expand and contract. A slow, rhythmic heave. Like a lung. Like a heart.

You are not alone.

Your sister is there. She stands by the window. The glass is dark. It reflects your face. But the face is wrong. The eyes are too wide. The mouth is too thin.

"Margaret," she says.

Her voice is not her voice. It is the voice of the house. It is the voice of the floorboards.

"Margaret," she says again.

You do not answer. You cannot. Your tongue is a stone in your mouth. You look at the lamp. The light is gone. But you are not afraid. Fear is a thing of the day. This is the night. This is the deep.

You move toward the lamp. Your feet do not make sound. The floor is soft. It is not wood. It is something else. It is flesh. It is skin.

You touch the glass. It is warm. It is alive.

"Look," your sister says. She does not look at you. She looks at the dark. "Look at what we have made."

You do not understand. You have always been the silent one. You have always been the one who holds the line. You have carried the weight. You have carried the shame. You have carried the name.

The name is heavy. The name is a chain.

The house groans. A sound like a ship in a storm. The walls lean in. The shadows lengthen. They creep toward the table. They creep toward the lamp.

"You must fix it," your sister says.

Her eyes are wet. They are bright. They are full of a terrible joy.

"Fix it, Margaret."

You look at the lamp. The pieces are scattered. They are sharp. They are beautiful. You pick up a shard. It cuts your finger. The blood is red. It is bright. It is the only true color in the room.

You do not drop it. You hold it. You let it bleed.

"I cannot," you say.

Your voice is small. It is a whisper. It is a thread.

"You can," she says. She steps closer. The air between you is tight. It is a wire. It is a noose. "You have to."

You look at her. You see the truth. It is not in her eyes. It is in her hands. Her hands are shaking. Her hands are empty. She has no power. She has no strength. She is as fragile as you. She is as broken as the glass.

The house screams. A high, thin sound. A sound like a bird. A sound like a child.

The shadows rush forward. They are hungry. They are cold. They want the light. They want the heat. They want the life.

You stand between them and the lamp. You are a wall. You are a shield. You are the last thing between the dark and the fire.

You think of your mother. You think of the kitchen. You think of the smell of bread. You think of the sun on the floor. You think of the days before. The days when the house was only a house. The days when the walls were only walls.

It is too late. The past is a ghost. The past is a wound.

You look at the shard in your hand. It is a mirror. It shows you your face. It shows you your pain. It shows you your love.

You realize then. You have always been the lamp.

You are not the keeper. You are the fuel.

The truth hits you. It is a blow. It is a wave. It is a tide.

You have been burning. You have been burning for years. You have been burning for her. You have been burning for the name. You have been burning for the house.

You have given everything. You have given your voice. You have given your time. You have given your self.

And it is not enough. It is never enough.

The shadows touch your feet. The cold is intense. It is a bite. It is a sting.

You look at your sister. She is crying. She is begging.

"Please," she says. "Please, Margaret."

You want to run. You want to flee. You want to shatter the glass and let the dark in. You want to let it all go. You want to let it die.

But you cannot.

Love is not a choice. Love is a fact. Love is a law. Love is a gravity.

You draw your hand back. The shard is sharp. It is ready.

You do not think. You do not plan. You do not speak.

You act.

You bring the shard down. You drive it into the base of the lamp. You drive it into the wood. You drive it into the earth.

The house stops. The breathing stops. The screaming stops.

Silence.

Total, absolute silence.

You hold the shard. Your hand is steady. Your heart is still.

You look at your sister. She is still. She is pale. She is afraid.

You pull the shard out. You drop it. It clatters on the floor.

You reach for the wick. You light it.

The flame rises. It is small. It is weak. It is blue.

But it is there.

The light spreads. It pushes the shadows back. It pushes the cold back. It pushes the dark back.

The walls straighten. The air clears. The taste of copper fades. The taste of dust fades.

You look at your hands. They are shaking. They are bleeding. They are tired.

You look at your sister. She is looking at the light. She is looking at you.

She smiles.

It is not a happy smile. It is a sad smile. It is a grateful smile. It is a final smile.

"Thank you," she says.

Her voice is clear. It is soft. It is human.

You nod. You cannot speak. Your throat is closed. Your throat is burned.

You sit down. You sit at the table. You sit beside the lamp.

The light flickers. It dances. It hums.

You close your eyes. You feel the heat. You feel the life. You feel the end.

You are not sad. You are not afraid. You are empty. You are full. You are gone.

The lamp burns. The lamp burns. The lamp burns.

You are the light. You are the fire. You are the end.

The dark is gone. The house is quiet. The sister is gone.

You are alone.

You are the lamp.

You burn.

The flame is high. The flame is bright. The flame is true.

You see the room. You see the table. You see the glass.

You see yourself.

You are the light.

You are the sacrifice.

You are the redemption.

The house is still. The air is still. The time is still.

You are still.

The flame does not die. The flame does not fade. The flame does not go out.

It burns.

It burns.

It burns.

The darkness recedes. The shadows retreat. The cold retreats.

The light is all that is left.

The light is you.

The light is love.

The light is truth.

The light is forever.

You close your eyes. You open them. You see the light. You see the dark. You see the line between them.

You are the line.

You are the boundary.

You are the gate.

You hold the gate. You hold the line. You hold the light.

You do not let go. You do not let in. You do not let out.

You hold.

You hold.

You hold.

The flame is steady. The flame is strong. The flame is warm.

You are warm. You are strong. You are steady.

You are the lamp.

You are the light.

You are the end.

The end is not a death. The end is a birth. The end is a beginning.

You are born into the light. You are born into the dark. You are born into the space between.

You are the space. You are the silence. You are the breath.

You are the life.

You are the lamp.

You burn.

You burn.

You burn.

The story ends. The story continues. The story is the light. The story is the fire. The story is you.

You are the light.

You are the fire.

You are the truth.

You are the sacrifice.

You are the redemption.

You are the lamp.

You burn.

The flame is high.

The flame is bright.

The flame is true.

You are the light.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

You are the life.

You are the love.

You are the truth.

You are the lamp.

You burn.

The darkness is gone.

The light is all.

The light is you.

You are the light.

You are the lamp.

You burn.

The story is over.

The light remains.

The lamp remains.

You remain.

You burn.

The flame is eternal.

The flame is true.

The flame is you.

You are the light.

You are the lamp.

You burn.

The end.

The light.

The fire.

The truth.

The love.

The life.

The lamp.

You.

Burn.