The glass was thick. It hummed.

Mara pressed her forehead against the pane. Cold. Sharp. She smelled the ozone. She smelled the rain.

"Stop it," said David.

He stood by the door. He held his coffee. It was lukewarm. He looked at the wall.

"I'm not stopping," Mara said. Her voice was flat. It was thin.

"Then what are you doing?"

"Waiting."

"For what?"

"For the bird."

David laughed. It was a dry sound. Like paper tearing. "There is no bird, Mara. It’s a reflection. It’s you."

"Look again," she said.

She did not look at him. She looked at the spot on the glass. Three feet from the left. Two feet from the floor. There was a smudge. A dark, wet mark. It pulsed.

"David."

"What."

"Is that a sparrow?"

He sighed. He set the cup down. He walked to the window. He stood behind her. He smelled of soap. He smelled of fear.

"I don't see it," he said.

"You’re not looking hard enough."

He put his hand on her shoulder. She flinched. He pulled back.

"Let’s go home," he said. "The meeting is in an hour."

"The meeting can wait."

"The meeting cannot wait, Mara. You know this. You know the rules."

She turned. She looked at him. Her eyes were red. They were wide.

"Who are the rules for?" she asked.

"For us," he said. "For the company. For the safety protocols."

"The bird is trapped," she said.

David stared at her. His face was slack. His mouth was open. He said nothing. He looked at the glass. He looked at the smudge. He looked at her.

"Mara," he said. "There is no bird."

"Check the logs," she said.

"Which logs?"

"The maintenance logs. The window seals. They’re cracked. They’ve been cracked for months. The bird got in. It’s been in there since Tuesday."

David shook his head. He turned away. He walked to the door. He opened it. The hallway light spilled in. It was yellow. It was harsh.

"Stay here," he said.

"I’m not staying."

"You’re staying."

He closed the door. The lock clicked. The sound was loud. It echoed.

Mara turned back to the glass. The smudge was bigger. It was moving. It flapped. It was brown. It was small. It was a sparrow.

It beat its wings.

*Thump. Thump. Thump.*

It hit the glass. It tried to fly up. It hit the ceiling. It fell. It beat again.

Mara pressed her hand to the glass. The bird pressed its beak to her palm.

"Hello," she whispered.

The bird did not speak. It only breathed. Its chest heaved. In. Out. In. Out.

Mara watched it. She forgot her name. She forgot the office. She forgot David. She was only the glass. She was only the air. She was only the cold.

The phone rang.

It was the desk phone. It sat on the corner of the desk. It buzzed. A low, angry buzz.

Mara did not move.

The bird hit the glass again. *Thump.*

The phone rang again.

Mara picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Is this Mara?"

A voice. Male. Calm.

"Yes."

"This is Mr. Vance. Security."

Mara’s heart stopped. It was a stone. It dropped.

"I’m in the observation room," she said.

"We know where you are, Mara. We can see you on the camera."

She looked at the ceiling. The red light was on. It blinked. *Blink. Blink. Blink.*

"I’m trying to help a bird," she said.

"A bird?"

"It’s trapped. In the window. It’s dying."

"Please step away from the window, Mara. You’re blocking the sensor."

"The sensor isn't working. It’s broken. That’s why the bird is in there."

"Step away from the window."

Mara put the phone down. She did not hang up. She held the receiver. She looked at the bird.

The bird was still. It lay on its side. Its wings were spread. Its eyes were black. They were wet.

Mara felt a tear slide down her cheek. It was hot. It stung.

"David," she said. "David, it’s dead."

There was no answer.

She pressed her face to the glass. She kissed the spot where the bird had been. The glass was cold. It bit her lip.

"David, I’m sorry," she said. "I’m sorry I didn’t listen."

The door opened.

David walked in. He was not alone. Two men were behind him. They wore suits. They wore no faces. They looked like shadows.

David looked at Mara. His eyes were empty. He looked at the glass. He looked at the spot.

"Is it gone?" he asked.

Mara nodded. She wiped her face. Her hand was red.

"Yes," she said. "It’s gone."

David walked to the desk. He sat down. He picked up his coffee. He drank. He made a sound in his throat.

"Good," he said. "Now. The report."

"What report?"

"The incident report. You were in the observation room. You were touching the glass. You were... vocal."

"I was speaking to a bird."

David looked at the men. They did not move. They did not blink.

"Let’s not do that again," David said. "The bird wasn't real, Mara. It was a hallucination. A stress response. You’re under pressure. We’re all under pressure."

Mara looked at the glass. The smudge was gone. It was clean. It was perfect.

"But it was there," she said.

"It was you," David said. "It was always you. You’re the one trapped. You’re the one banging against the glass. And you’re the one who thinks you’re the bird."

Mara felt the words hit her. They were heavy. They were lead.

"Am I?" she asked.

David stood up. He buttoned his jacket.

"Go to HR," he said. "Take the week off. Take the leave. Come back when you’re clear."

"Clear?"

"Clear," he said.

Mara stood up. Her legs were weak. She walked to the door. She passed David. He smelled of soap. He smelled of nothing.

"David," she said.

He stopped. He looked at her.

"Did you ever see it?" she asked. "The bird? Did you ever see it?"

David’s face tightened. His jaw worked.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

He walked past her. He left the room. The men followed him. The door closed. The lock clicked.

Mara stood in the center of the room. She looked at the glass. She looked at her reflection.

She was thin. She was pale. Her eyes were hollow. She looked like a ghost. She looked like a bird.

She raised her hand. She pressed it to the glass.

*Thump.*

She heard it. It was inside her. It was the sound of her heart. It was the sound of her fear. It was the sound of her life.

She pulled her hand back.

She walked to the desk. She picked up the phone. She dialed the number. It was the number for the elevator.

The elevator came. The doors opened. She stepped in.

She pressed the button for the ground floor.

The doors closed.

She rode down. She watched the numbers change. 10. 9. 8.

She thought of the bird. She thought of the smudge. She thought of David’s face.

She was not the bird. She was the cage. She was the glass. She was the silence.

The doors opened.

The lobby was bright. It was white. It was empty.

A receptionist sat at the desk. She looked up. She smiled. It was a small smile. It was a safe smile.

"Good morning," the receptionist said.

Mara walked past her. She walked to the exit. She pushed the door open.

The air hit her. It was cool. It was wet. It smelled of rain.

She stepped out.

She looked up. The sky was grey. It was heavy. It was pressing down.

A sparrow flew past. It was brown. It was small. It was fast.

It did not look at her. It did not care. It flew away.

Mara watched it go. She did not follow. She did not call out.

She turned. She walked down the street. Her shoes clicked on the pavement. *Click. Click. Click.*

She walked alone.

She felt the weight of the glass on her skin. She felt the cold in her bones.

She did not look back.

She knew it was gone.

She knew it was always her.

And that was enough.

The rain began to fall. It was soft. It was gentle. It washed the street. It washed the air. It washed her face.

She let it fall.

She let it wash.

She let it go.