The shell cracked the window before Margaret even heard the whistle.

Glass sprayed. Warm. Wet. It stung her cheek like a slap. She did not flinch. She stood in the center of the parlor, holding a teacup. The cup was porcelain. Blue. It was intact.

The door was gone. Splinters lay across the Persian rug. A draft howled through the frame. Cold air rushed in. It smelled of cordite and wet earth.

Margaret did not run. She walked to the window. She looked out.

The garden was gone. The roses were dead. The fence was a heap of wood. Beyond the fence, the village burned. Smoke rose. Gray. Thick. It hung low. It pressed against the sky.

A soldier stood in the doorway. He was young. He held a rifle. He looked at her. She looked at him.

He raised the gun.

Margaret raised the cup.

"Tea?" she said.

Her voice was steady. It was quiet. It cut through the noise of the fire.

The soldier lowered the rifle. He looked confused. He took a step forward. His boots crunched on the glass.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Margaret," she said. "I am the owner of this house."

"I am a soldier," he said. "This house is occupied."

"Then you are a guest," she said. "Guests are polite."

The soldier laughed. It was a short sound. Dry. He shook his head. He pointed the gun at her chest.

"Give me the house," he said.

"It is mine," she said. "It was my mother's. It was her mother's. It belongs to the walls."

"The walls are dead," he said. "I am alive."

Margaret looked at the cup. Steam rose from it. It curled. It twisted. It looked like a ghost.

"The walls remember," she said.

The soldier fired.

The bullet hit the wall behind her. Dust fell. It settled on her shoulders. She did not move. She did not blink. She looked at the hole in the plaster. It was black. It was deep. It looked like a mouth.

"You are crazy," he said.

"I am here," she said. "That is enough."

He holstered the gun. He turned to leave. He paused. He looked back.

"Come with us," he said. "Or die here."

"I am here," she repeated.

He left. The door frame groaned. The wind howled. Margaret put the cup down. She picked up the phone. The cord dangled. It was severed. She held the receiver to her ear. She listened.

There was no dial tone. There was only static. It sounded like rain. It sounded like screaming.

She hung up.

She walked to the kitchen. The stove was cold. She opened the oven. It was empty. She opened the pantry. It was empty. Flour. Sugar. No bread. No meat.

She opened the cellar door. The hinges screamed. She descended the stairs. The dark was thick. It pressed against her eyes. She turned on the lamp. The flame flickered. It danced. It was yellow. It was weak.

The cellar was full of jars. Mason jars. Glass. They lined the shelves. Hundreds of them. They glowed in the dim light. They held preserves. Tomatoes. Peaches. Plums. Cherries.

They were red. Gold. Purple. They were beautiful. They were perfect.

Margaret sat on the floor. She leaned against a shelf. She watched the jars. They did not move. They did not breathe. They waited.

A knock came at the top of the stairs.

Margaret did not move.

"Is anyone there?" a voice called.

It was a woman. Her voice was soft. It was tired.

Margaret did not answer.

"Please," the voice said. "We are cold. We are hungry."

Margaret closed her eyes. She thought of the soldier. She thought of the glass. She thought of the smoke.

She opened the door.

The woman stood on the landing. She was old. Her face was gray. Her hands were wrapped in rags. Behind her, three children huddled together. They were silent. They looked at Margaret with wide eyes.

"Come in," Margaret said.

The woman stepped down. She moved slowly. She carried a basket. It was empty. She looked at the jars. Her eyes widened.

"Is it... is it for us?" she asked.

"It is for the house," Margaret said.

The woman laughed. It was a bitter sound.

"The house is burning," she said.

"The house is here," Margaret said. "The house is in the jars."

The woman looked at her. She saw something strange in Margaret's eyes. It was not madness. It was not fear. It was something else. It was a wall.

"Take what you need," Margaret said.

The woman took a jar of peaches. She took a jar of plums. She gave them to the children. The children ate. They ate quickly. They ate greedily. Juice ran down their chins.

Margaret watched them. She did not eat. She sat on the floor. She held the lamp. The flame flickered.

The woman looked at the remaining jars. There were still hundreds.

"Why do you have so much?" she asked.

"My mother made them," Margaret said. "My mother's mother made them. We have been making them for a hundred years."

"That is a lot of food," the woman said.

"It is not food," Margaret said. "It is time."

The woman frowned. She did not understand. She did not want to understand. She gathered the children. She walked up the stairs. She went into the parlor. She sat by the broken window. She watched the fire.

Margaret went back to the cellar. She sat in the dark. She held the lamp. The flame burned. It consumed the oil. It consumed the wick. It consumed the air.

Hours passed. The fire outside roared. The heat rose. The walls sweated. The paint peeled.

Margaret felt the heat. It touched her skin. It felt like a hand. It was warm. It was close.

She thought of the soldier. He had not returned. He would not return. He was gone. He was part of the smoke.

She thought of the woman. She was alive. She had food. She was safe. For now.

Margaret looked at the jars. They were full. They were heavy. They were solid.

She picked up a jar of cherries. It was warm. The glass glowed. The cherries inside were dark. They were almost black.

She opened the jar. The smell filled the cellar. It was sweet. It was sour. It was sharp.

She ate a cherry. It burst on her tongue. It was cold. It was firm. It tasted like blood.

She ate another.

She ate another.

The lamp went out.

The dark was total. It was heavy. It was absolute.

Margaret sat in the dark. She did not move. She did not breathe. She listened.

She heard the fire. It was close. It was loud. It was eating the house.

She heard the creaking of the wood. It was a slow sound. It was a dying sound.

She heard her own heart. It beat. It was steady. It was strong.

She stood up. She walked to the stairs. The heat was intense. It burned her arms. It burned her face.

She climbed the stairs. The air was thick. It was hard to breathe.

She entered the parlor. The ceiling was on fire. Flames licked the beams. The floor was hot.

The woman was gone. The children were gone.

The room was empty. The fire was everywhere. It was a wall of light. It was a wall of heat.

Margaret walked to the center of the room. She stood under the beams. The wood groaned. It snapped.

A beam fell. It landed near her. It sparked. It flared.

Margaret did not move. She looked at the fire. She smiled.

She took out her handkerchief. She wiped her mouth. She wiped the juice from her chin.

The fire reached her. It touched her dress. It curled. It blackened.

She did not scream. She did not run.

She closed her eyes.

She thought of the jars. They were in the cellar. They were safe. They were full.

The fire consumed her. The fire consumed the house. The fire consumed the land.

The smoke rose. It mixed with the gray. It joined the others.

It was quiet.

It was still.

It was done.

In the cellar, the jars remained. They glowed. They waited. They held the time.

The fire died. The house collapsed. The dust settled.

The jars did not break.

They held.

They waited.

They were alone.

They were full.

They were the house.

The smoke rose.

It faded.

It was gone.

The silence remained.

The jars remained.

The time remained.

Margaret was gone.

The truth was simple.

She had not saved the house.

She had become the house.

The fire had not taken her.

She had given herself to the fire.

She had fed the flames.

She had fed the time.

She had fed the jars.

The misunderstanding was hers.

She believed she was protecting the past.

She was feeding the present.

She was killing the future.

The woman was gone. The children were gone. They had moved on. They had survived.

Margaret had not.

She had chosen the jars.

She had chosen the glass.

She had chosen the silence.

She had chosen the end.

The jars glowed in the dark.

They were beautiful.

They were empty.

They were full.

They were dead.

They were alive.

The fire was out.

The smoke was gone.

The silence was loud.

The jars remained.

They waited.

They held the time.

The time was gone.

The jars were alone.

The house was gone.

The woman was gone.

The children were gone.

Margaret was gone.

The fire was gone.

The smoke was gone.

The silence remained.

The jars remained.

The time remained.

The jars were full.

The jars were empty.

The jars were glass.

The jars were light.

The jars were dark.

The jars were still.

The jars were alone.

The jars were here.

The jars were gone.

The jars were everything.

The jars were nothing.

The jars were the house.

The house was the jars.

The jars were Margaret.

Margaret was the jars.

The jars were the fire.

The fire was the jars.

The jars were the silence.

The silence was the jars.

The jars were the time.

The time was the jars.

The jars were the end.

The end was the jars.

The jars were the beginning.

The beginning was the jars.

The jars were the truth.

The truth was the jars.

The jars were the lie.

The lie was the jars.

The jars were the memory.

The memory was the jars.

The jars were the forgetting.

The forgetting was the jars.

The jars were the remembering.

The remembering was the jars.

The jars were the life.

The life was the jars.

The jars were the death.

The death was the jars.

The jars were the life.

The life was the jars.

The jars were the silence.

The silence was the jars.

The jars were the end.

The end was the jars.