I woke in the dark. The dream had the smell of wet wool and iron. I lay still. The ceiling was white. Cracked. A spider web caught the light from the window. I remembered the face. It was my father’s. But it was not. It was the Master’s. We called him the Golden Master. Not because of gold. Because of the way the light hit his suit. It shimmered. Like oil on water. He stood at the end of the hall. I was a child. I held a knife. I did not know what I was doing. My hands were shaking. He did not move. He just looked at me. The look was heavy. It pressed on my chest. I woke up gasping. The room was cold. My breath fogged. I am not a dreamer. Not anymore. I am a man of facts. I am a sergeant. I wear the uniform. It fits tight. It is heavy. I check my belt. The buckle is cold. I touch my jaw. It is hard.

I go to the house. It is my house. It is my father’s house. He died when I was twenty. I was twenty-two. I had been gone for three years. I came back for the funeral. I did not come back after. I sent money. I sent cards. I did not visit. The house stands on the hill. The grass is brown. The trees are bare. I walk up the path. The gravel crunches under my boots. I stop. I look at the door. It is black. The paint is peeling. I take out my key. It is rusted. It sticks. I pull. The door opens. It groans. The sound is loud. It echoes in the empty hall. The air smells of dust. And old paper. And something sweet. Rot. I step inside. I close the door behind me. The lock clicks. The sound is final.

I walk to the living room. The curtains are drawn. I pull them open. The light is gray. The furniture is covered in sheets. They look like ghosts. I lift a sheet. A chair. It is empty. I lift another. A table. There is a cup on it. The cup is gold. It is small. It is chipped. I pick it up. It is warm. That is impossible. It is cold outside. The cup is warm. I put it in my pocket. I walk to the kitchen. The sink is empty. The tiles are cracked. I see a stain on the floor. It is brown. It is old. I kneel down. I touch it. It is dry. It is hard. I stand up. My knees pop. I am not young. I am forty. I feel old. I feel tired. I go to the stairs. The wood creaks under my weight. I go up. The second floor. The hallway is narrow. The walls are thin. I can hear the wind outside. It whistles. It sounds like a voice. I stop. I listen. The sound stops. I keep walking. I go to the bedroom at the end. My room. I open the door. The bed is made. The sheets are white. I sit on the edge. The mattress dips. I look around. The walls are bare. There is no art. There are no photos. There is only a desk. I open the drawer. It is empty. I open the second drawer. There is a letter. The paper is yellow. The ink is faded. I pick it up. I unfold it.

The letter is from my father. It is dated ten years ago. I read it. My eyes blur. I read it again. The words are simple. They are cruel. He says he is leaving. He says he is taking the gold. He says he is taking the name. He says I am not his son. He says I am a mistake. He says I am a shadow. He says I will disappear. I fold the letter. I put it in my pocket. I sit still. I wait for the pain. It does not come. I feel nothing. I feel empty. I stand up. I walk to the window. I look out. The garden is dead. The fence is broken. I see a figure. He is standing by the gate. He is tall. He wears a suit. It is black. It shimmers. I squint. I cannot see his face. He raises his hand. He waves. I wave back. I do not know why. I wave. He walks away. He disappears into the fog. I turn back to the room. The room is empty. The chair is empty. The cup is gone from my pocket. I check again. It is not there. I did not put it there. I am sure I did. I am sure.

I go downstairs. I go to the front door. I open it. I step out. The air is cold. I walk to the gate. The gate is open. The path leads down the hill. I walk. I walk fast. I run. I run down the hill. The gravel flies up. My lungs burn. I stop. I am at the bottom. I am on the road. The road is wet. I look back. The house is small. It looks like a box. I look at the gate. The figure is there. He is standing. He is not moving. He is looking at me. I walk to him. I stop three feet away. I look up. His face is clear. It is my father’s face. But it is not. It is the Master’s face. He smiles. The smile is thin. It is sharp. He speaks. His voice is low. It is like gravel.

"You left," he says.

"I didn't know," I say.

"You knew," he says.

I shake my head. I am shaking. I am cold. "I was a child," I say.

"You are a man," he says.

"I am a sergeant," I say.

He laughs. It is a dry sound. "You are a ghost," he says.

I look at him. I look at his eyes. They are black. They are deep. I see something in them. I see fear. I see pain. I see love. It is a fierce love. It is a destroying love. I realize it then. The gold. The cup. The name. It was not about wealth. It was about sacrifice. He gave it all. He gave it to the void. He gave it to the dark. He did it for me. Or did he? I do not know. I look at him. I see the truth. It is not a monster. It is a mirror. It is my own shadow. I see myself in him. I see the coldness. I see the distance. I see the betrayal. I am the one who left. I am the one who stayed away. I am the one who forgot.

"I forgive you," he says.

"I don't want your forgiveness," I say.

"I don't want your hate," he says.

We stand there. The fog rolls in. It touches our legs. It touches our faces. The world fades. The colors drain. The sound stops. I am alone. I am in the room. I am in the dream. I wake up. I am in my bed. The sheets are damp. I am sweating. I sit up. The room is dark. The clock on the nightstand ticks. One. Two. Three. I look at my hands. They are steady. I look at my pocket. I reach in. I find the cup. It is gold. It is cold. It is heavy. I hold it. I look at it. The chip is there. The chip is a wound. I close my hand around it. I squeeze. The metal bites into my skin. I do not let go. I stand up. I walk to the door. I open it. The hall is dark. I walk to the stairs. I go down. I open the front door. The night is cold. The stars are out. They are bright. They are far. I step out. I close the door. I lock it. I walk to the car. I get in. I start the engine. The engine roars. I drive. I drive fast. The road is empty. The lights are blurred. I drive to the city. I drive to the station. I walk in. I go to my desk. I sit down. I put the cup on the desk. I look at it. I pick up my phone. I dial a number. It rings. It rings. It rings.

"Hello," I say.

"Who is this?" a voice says. It is my sister’s voice. It is old. It is tired.

"It is me," I say.

"Who is me?" she says.

"John," I say.

Silence. Then a breath. "Why?" she asks.

"I need to come back," I say.

"To where?"

"To the house," I say.

"It is empty," she says.

"I know," I say.

"Who is there?"

"No one," I say.

"Then why?"

"I don't know," I say.

I hang up. I look at the cup. The light from the lamp hits it. It glows. It is beautiful. It is deadly. I pick it up. I walk out. I go to the car. I drive. I drive back to the hill. The house is in the dark. I park. I get out. I walk to the door. I do not knock. I enter. I walk to the living room. I light a match. The flame is small. The flame is orange. I look at the room. The sheets are still on the furniture. The dust is still there. I walk to the center of the room. I hold the cup. I look at the ceiling. I remember the spider web. I remember the dream. I remember the face. I close my eyes. I breathe in. I breathe out. I let go. I let go of the cup. It falls. It hits the floor. It does not break. It clinks. The sound is sharp. It is clear. It is real. I stand there. I listen. The sound fades. The room is quiet. The night is deep. I am alone. I am free. I am not. I am part of it. I am the gold. I am the master. I am the shadow. I am the light. I stand in the dark. I wait. I wait for the morning. I wait for the truth. The truth is simple. The truth is empty. The truth is me. I close my eyes. I sleep. I dream. I wake. I am here. I am now. I am nothing. I am everything. The cup is on the floor. I do not pick it up. I leave it. I walk out. I close the door. I lock it. I walk away. I do not look back. I walk into the fog. I walk into the dark. I walk into the light. I am gone. I am here. I am gone.