The lily sat in the clay pot on my desk. It was white. It was perfect. It did not move.

I touched the petal. It was cold.

"Mr. Hale," the voice said. It came from the doorway. "You are late."

I looked up. It was Thomas. He wore his gray coat. He looked at the flower.

"It is a lily," I said.

"It is a weed," he said. "Put it away."

"I will not."

Thomas stepped inside. The door clicked shut. The air was stale. It smelled of dust and old ink.

"We have work," he said. "The ledgers are open. The debtors are waiting."

"The ledgers can wait."

"They cannot wait. You know the rules. The village needs order. The church needs order. You are a clerk. You serve order."

I looked back at the lily. It seemed to glow. The light in the room was dim. The lily was bright.

"It is not a weed," I said. "It is a sign."

Thomas laughed. It was a short, dry sound. "A sign of what? Of madness? We have enough madness. We have the plague. We have the famine. We do not need your flowers."

I stood up. My knees cracked. I was old. My hands shook.

"I am keeping it," I said.

"Then I will take it."

He reached out. His hand was large. It was rough. It looked like a claw.

I backed away. I pushed the pot toward the wall.

"Thomas," I said. "Remember Sarah."

His face changed. The anger faded. Something else came in. Fear.

"Sarah is dead," he said.

"She is in the lily," I said.

He froze. "Do not speak her name. She is in the ground. She is with God. She is not in a pot of dirt."

"She is in the bloom," I whispered. "I have seen her. In the petals. In the center. She is there."

Thomas stared at me. His eyes were wet. He looked at the floor.

"You are losing your mind, William," he said. "I am sorry. I am truly sorry. But I must do my duty. If I do not, they will come for you. The magistrate. He is coming tomorrow."

I felt a chill. "Why?"

"Because you refuse to work. Because you speak of ghosts. Because you keep a woman’s memory alive in a place where she does not belong. It is dangerous. It is forbidden."

I looked at the lily. It was still. It was calm.

"I am not afraid," I said.

"You should be."

Thomas walked around the desk. He moved slowly. He looked at the window. The rain was falling. It tapped on the glass.

"William," he said. "Let me help you. Give it to me. I will burn it. We will forget. We can start over. You can go home. You can see your wife."

My heart stopped. "My wife?"

"Sarah," he said. "Your wife."

I looked at him. "Sarah has been dead for ten years."

Thomas blinked. "What?"

"Ten years," I said. "She died in the fever. I buried her. I carried her."

Thomas stepped back. He looked confused. He looked at the door.

"William," he said. "Your wife is Eleanor. You live with Eleanor. She is in the house. She is waiting for you."

I frowned. "No. I live alone. I am a clerk. I live in the tower. I have no wife."

Thomas’s face went pale. "You are confusing things. You are ill. You have a fever. You need to rest."

I looked at my hands. They were dry. They were wrinkled. I looked at the pot. The lily was white.

"Who is Eleanor?" I asked.

"Your spouse," Thomas said. "The woman who cares for you. The woman you married. She is the one who put the lily there."

I felt dizzy. The room tilted. The ink on the desk blurred.

"No," I said. "Sarah was my wife. Sarah was the lily."

Thomas raised his hand. "Stop it. You are making this worse. Come with me. We will go to your house. We will see Eleanor. It will make sense."

I did not move.

"Thomas," I said. "You are lying."

"I am not lying."

"You are a fool. You are a tool. You serve the system. The system says I am mad. The system says I am old. The system says I must forget."

"William, please."

"I will not forget."

Thomas sighed. He looked tired. He looked old. We were both old.

"Fine," he said. "Keep the flower. But you must come to the magistrate. You must answer for your refusal to work. You must answer for your delusions."

"I will go," I said.

"You will not go. I will take the flower. And you will come. That is the deal."

I looked at the lily. It was the only thing that was real. The room was false. Thomas was false. My memory was false. But the lily was real.

"Take it," I said.

Thomas picked up the pot. He held it gently. He looked at the flower. He did not see Sarah. He saw only a weed.

"Thank you," he said.

He walked to the door. He opened it. The rain was loud.

"William," he said. "Come with me. It is late. The roads are bad. You cannot walk alone."

I followed him. I walked slowly. My legs hurt.

We went out into the street. The cobblestones were wet. They reflected the lanterns. The light was yellow. It was sick.

We walked to the magistrate’s house. It was a big stone building. It stood on the hill.

Thomas knocked. A servant opened the door.

"Mr. Hale is here," Thomas said. "Bring him in."

We entered. The room was large. It was cold. The magistrate sat at the end. He was a small man. He had a round face. He wore a black robe.

He looked at us.

"Sit," he said.

I sat. My chair was hard.

"William Hale," the magistrate said. "You are brought before me for neglect of duty. For speaking against the law. For keeping forbidden objects."

"I kept a lily," I said.

"It was a symbol of heresy," the magistrate said. "It represented the dead. It represented the past. The past must be burned. The present must be clear."

"I did not mean heresy," I said.

"Intent does not matter. Action matters. You kept the flower. You spoke of the dead. You refused to work. These are crimes."

Thomas stood by the wall. He looked at the floor. He did not look at me.

"Is there anything you wish to say?" the magistrate asked.

I looked at Thomas. "Thomas, what is this?"

The magistrate pointed at Thomas. "He is your superior. He is your protector. He brings you here to save you from yourself."

"Save me?" I said. "From what?"

"From the ghost," the magistrate said. "From the woman who haunts you. From the cycle."

I felt a rage. It was hot. It was bright.

"I am not haunted," I said. "I am alive."

"You are a machine," the magistrate said. "A machine has no ghosts. A machine has no past. A machine works. You have stopped working. Therefore, you are broken."

"Fix me," I said.

"We will burn the flower," the magistrate said. "We will burn the memory. And you will work. Or we will lock you up. Which will it be?"

I looked at the pot. Thomas was holding it. The lily was drooping. It was dying.

"Take it," I said.

The magistrate smiled. He nodded to Thomas.

Thomas walked forward. He held the pot out.

"Let go, William," Thomas said.

I looked at him. "Why?"

"Because you are tired," he said. "Because you are old. Because you cannot carry it anymore."

I looked at the lily. I saw Sarah. I saw her face in the white petals. She was smiling. She was sad.

"Goodbye," I said.

Thomas set the pot on the table. The magistrate picked it up. He carried it to the fireplace.

The fire was low. It was orange.

He dropped the pot.

The clay cracked. The dirt spilled. The lily fell.

It hit the floor. It was broken.

I did not scream. I did not move. I just watched.

The magistrate picked up the stem. He tossed it into the fire.

The flame took it. It curled. It blackened. It turned to ash.

The room was silent.

Thomas looked at me. "It is done," he said.

I stood up. My legs were weak.

"It is done," I repeated.

The magistrate looked at me. "Will you work?"

"Yes," I said.

"Good. Go home. Rest. Tomorrow you return to the desk."

I walked to the door. Thomas was there.

"William," he said. "Are you well?"

"I am empty," I said.

"That is a good thing," Thomas said. "Empty is clean. Empty is free."

I walked out. The rain had stopped. The air was fresh. It smelled of wet stone.

I walked to my house. It was small. It was dark.

I opened the door.

Inside, it was quiet.

I went to the bedroom.

There was a bed. There was a chair. There was a mirror.

I looked in the mirror.

I saw my face. It was old. It was gray.

I looked at the corner of the room.

There was a pot.

It was clay. It was red.

Inside, there was a lily.

It was white. It was perfect. It did not move.

I stared at it.

My hand reached out.

I touched the petal.

It was cold.

I smiled.

I sat down.

I waited.

The cycle turns. The wheel spins. The ash rises. The root drinks. The flower blooms.

I am here.

I am the clerk.

I am the ghost.

I am the lily.

The light fades. The room is dark. The flower glows.

I hold it.

I hold it.

I hold it.