The gate was locked.

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"Open it."

"It is locked."

"Force it."

"I cannot."

"Then leave it."

He did not leave it. He stood in the mud. The rain was cold. It soaked his shirt. The mud sucked at his boots. He looked at the wood. It was old. The grain was grey. The iron hinges were rusted. They were thick. They were strong.

"Margaret."

"I am here."

"Did you lock it?"

"I did."

"Why?"

"Because you asked me to."

"Did I ask you?"

"You did."

"When?"

"Last night."

"I do not remember."

"I remember."

"Then I must have been mad."

"You were not mad. You were tired."

"Am I still tired?"

"Yes."

"Then why did you lock it?"

"To keep you in."

"To keep me safe?"

"To keep me safe."

The wind blew. It pushed through the trees. The branches were bare. They tapped against the gate. Tap. Tap. Tap. A rhythm. A heartbeat. He felt it in his chest. He put his hand on the wood. It was cold. It was damp.

"Let me in," he said.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you are not ready."

"Ready for what?"

"For the end."

He laughed. It was a dry sound. It was like a crack in the air.

"I am not going to die," he said.

"You are not."

"Then what is the end?"

"The door."

He looked at the gate again. Behind it, the garden was green. The grass was wet. The flowers were dying. They were red. They were yellow. They were brown.

"I paid for that garden," he said.

"You did."

"I bought the land."

"You did."

"I built the house."

"You did."

"I own it."

"You do."

"Then let me in."

"No."

He kicked the gate. The iron shook. The hinges groaned. A sound of metal on metal. It was loud. It was sharp.

"Stop," she said.

"I will not stop."

"Please."

"I will break it."

"Then you will break yourself."

He stopped. He breathed. His chest heaved. The air was thin. It was hard to pull.

"What is in there?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"Is there a key?"

"Yes."

"Give it to me."

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"Because I threw it away."

"Where?"

"In the river."

"Which river?"

"The one by the bridge."

"I will go to the river."

"You will not find it."

"I will find it."

"Water is deep."

"I can swim."

"You cannot."

"I can."

"You cannot."

He looked at her. Her face was pale. Her eyes were dark. There was no fear in them. There was only patience. It was a heavy thing. It pressed on him.

"Margaret," he said.

"Yes."

"I love you."

"I know."

"Then open the gate."

"I cannot."

"I am your husband."

"You are my prisoner."

The word hung in the air. It did not move. It did not fade. It stayed. He felt it land on his shoulders. It was a weight. It was a chain.

"I am not a prisoner," he said.

"You are."

"Look at me."

She looked.

"Do I look like a prisoner?"

"Yes."

"I have a house."

"You have a cage."

"I have a life."

"You have a sentence."

He turned away. He walked to the fence. The wire was sharp. It cut his hand. Blood welled up. It was red. It was bright. He did not wipe it away. He let it run. It dripped onto the mud. It mixed with the water. It became brown.

He walked along the fence. He walked for an hour. He walked for two hours. The sun went down. The sky turned purple. Then it turned black. The stars came out. They were cold. They were far.

He came back to the gate. He was tired. His legs were heavy. His head was light.

"Margaret," he said.

"I am here."

"Are you still there?"

"Yes."

"Did you sleep?"

"Yes."

"Did you dream?"

"Yes."

"Of what?"

"Of the river."

"Did you find the key?"

"No."

"Did you try to find it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it is not there."

"Then where is the key?"

"Inside."

He frowned. He was confused. The rain had stopped. The air was still.

"Inside what?"

"Inside you."

He closed his eyes. He listened. He listened to the blood in his ears. He listened to the wind in the trees. He listened to the silence.

"I am cold," he said.

"Come inside."

"I cannot."

"Then you will freeze."

"I will not freeze."

"You will."

He sat down. He sat on the wet ground. The mud seeped through his pants. It was cold. It was wet. He did not move. He waited.

She came to the gate. She opened it.

The sound was soft. It was a click. It was a release.

He looked up.

She stood in the doorway. The light from inside fell on her face. It was warm. It was yellow.

"Come in," she said.

"I am not ready."

"You are."

"Am I?"

"Yes."

He stood up. His legs shook. He walked to the gate. He put his hand on the wood. It was dry now. It was warm.

He stepped through.

The gate closed behind him. It did not lock. It just closed.

He was inside.

The house was quiet. The floor was wood. It was smooth. It was polished.

Margaret stood in the hall. She did not move. She did not speak.

He looked at her. He looked at the walls. He looked at the door.

"Where is the key?" he asked.

She smiled. It was a small smile. It was sad.

"There is no key," she said.

"What?"

"There is no key."

"Why did you lie?"

"I did not lie."

"You said you threw it away."

"I did."

"Then where is the key?"

"It is gone."

"Gone?"

"Yes."

"Then how did you open the gate?"

"I did not open it."

He looked at the gate. It was open. It was wide open.

"I did not lock it," she said.

He blinked. He was confused. His mind was foggy.

"I locked it," he said.

"No."

"I remember."

"You dreamed it."

"I did not dream it."

"You did."

He looked at his hand. The cut was healed. There was no scar. There was no blood. There was nothing.

He looked at the gate. The hinges were new. They were shiny. They were silver.

They were not old. They were not rusted.

He looked at Margaret. Her face was clear. Her eyes were bright.

"I did not lock it," she said again.

"You did."

"I did not."

He fell to his knees. The wood was hard. It hurt. He did not care.

"I am sorry," he said.

"What for?"

"For everything."

"Get up."

He did not get up.

"Get up, Thomas."

He looked at her. He saw her face. He saw her fear. He saw her love. It was in her eyes. It was deep. It was dark.

"I cannot," he said.

"You can."

"I do not want to."

"Then stay."

He stayed.

He stayed on the floor. He stayed in the hall. He stayed in the house.

The days passed. The sun rose. The sun set. The seasons changed. The leaves fell. The snow came. The snow melted. The leaves grew.

He did not get up.

He did not eat.

He did not drink.

He did not speak.

Margaret brought him food. She placed it on the floor. It rotted. It turned to mush. It turned to water.

She brought him water. It spilled. It soaked into the wood.

She spoke to him. She spoke to the air. She spoke to the walls.

"Thomas," she said.

"I am here," he said.

His voice was soft. It was thin.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Then get up."

He looked at his body. It was thin. It was pale. It was weak.

He looked at the gate. It was closed.

He put his hand on the wood.

He pushed.

It did not move.

He pushed harder.

It did not move.

He pushed with all his strength.

It did not move.

He stopped.

He breathed.

He looked at Margaret.

She was crying.

"Open it," he said.

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"Because you are inside."

"I am inside."

"Yes."

"Then let me out."

"I cannot."

"Break it."

"I cannot."

He looked at the gate. He looked at the wood. He looked at the iron.

He understood.

He was not a prisoner.

He was the wall.

He was the lock.

He was the door.

He closed his eyes.

He let go.

He let go of the gate.

He let go of the house.

He let go of the name.

He let go of the self.

The gate opened.

It opened by itself.

The wind came in. It was cold. It was fresh.

Margaret walked to the gate. She stopped. She looked back.

Thomas was not there.

The floor was empty.

The wood was bare.

The dust was still.

She walked out.

She walked into the night.

She walked into the dark.

She walked into the rain.

She did not look back.

She did not look forward.

She just walked.

The gate closed behind her.

It did not lock.

It just closed.

The house was empty.

The house was quiet.

The house was gone.