You dream of the glass. Not the window, not the mirror, but the shard. It sits on the floor of a white room, catching a light that has no source. You pick it up. It cuts your palm. The blood is black. You drop it. It shatters.

You wake up in the cell. The air is cold. It tastes of rust. You are wearing a grey jumpsuit. The fabric is thin. It scratches your neck. You do not look down. You know what is there. A bruise. A mark. A sign of where the strap hit.

You have been here for three days. Or maybe four. Time is a loop. It spins. It does not move forward. It only grinds. You count the cracks in the ceiling. There are seven. You have counted them a hundred times. The number does not change. Neither does the silence.

The door opens. A light floods in. It is too bright. It hurts your eyes. You squint. You see a man. He is tall. He wears a suit. The suit is dark. It is expensive. He does not look at you. He looks at the table.

"Sit down," he says.

His voice is flat. It has no music. It is a tool. A hammer. You sit. The chair is hard. The metal is cold against your legs.

He pulls out a chair. He sits across from you. He does not look at you. He looks at his hands. He is cleaning his nails. He uses a small tool. It is silver. It makes a tiny sound. Click. Click. Click.

"Do you know why you are here?" he asks.

You do not answer. You stare at the floor. The tile is cracked. A small line runs from the center to the edge. You trace it with your eye.

"Answer me," he says.

"I know," you say.

Your voice is rough. It sounds like gravel. You hate it. You hate how weak it is.

"Good," he says. He stops cleaning his nails. He puts the tool in his pocket. He looks at you. His eyes are blue. They are cold. They are like the sky in winter.

"We have a proposal," he says.

He slides a paper across the table. You do not touch it. It is white. It has words on it. You can read them. You do not want to read them.

"Sign it," he says.

"I will not."

He smiles. It is a small smile. It does not reach his eyes. It is a mask.

"Think about it," he says. "We are flexible. We want what is best for you. For everyone."

He stands up. He buttons his jacket. He walks to the door. He stops. He turns around.

"Your brother," he says. "He is doing well. But he is tired. He needs rest. Do you understand?"

The door closes. The light goes out. The dark returns.

Your brother. Thomas. He is in the next cell. You can hear him. He is humming. A song. An old song. Your mother used to sing it. It is about a bird. A bird that lost its wing. It cannot fly. It sits on the branch. It waits.

You try to stand up. Your legs are weak. They shake. You fall to your knees. You hit the floor. It is hard. It is cold. You stay there. You breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

You think about the glass. In the dream, it was sharp. In reality, it is dull. It is broken. It is useless. You are like the glass. You are broken. You are useless.

You think about the paper. The proposal. What is in it? A deal. A bargain. You give something. They give something. You give your voice. They give Thomas his freedom.

You think about justice. The word is heavy. It is a stone. You carry it in your chest. It crushes your lungs. You cannot breathe. You cough. The sound is dry. It echoes in the cell.

You were not a criminal. You were a witness. You saw something. A shadow. A hand. A gun. You spoke. You told the truth. The truth is a weapon. It cuts. It burns. It destroys.

They did not like the truth. They wanted a story. A neat story. A story with a beginning, a middle, and an end. A story where the bad guys are caught. A story where the good guys are safe.

You broke the story. You broke the system. You are the glitch. The error. The crack in the glass.

The door opens again. This time, it is not the man in the suit. It is a guard. He is large. He has a face like a stone. He does not speak. He gestures. You stand up. You walk. Your legs do not move easily. They drag.

You walk down a hallway. The walls are white. The floor is grey. The air is cold. You pass other cells. Some are empty. Some have people. You do not look. You cannot look.

You reach a door. It is red. It is different. The others are green. The red door is thick. It is heavy. It has a lock. It is a wheel. You have seen it before. In your dreams.

The guard stops. He turns to you. He nods. You know what this means. You are going to the office. The real office. Not the interview room. The place where the decisions are made.

You push the door open. It creaks. The sound is loud. It is like a scream.

The room is small. There is a desk. There is a chair. There is a window. The window is high. It is barred. You see the sky. It is grey. It is raining. The rain hits the glass. It makes a soft sound. Tap. Tap. Tap.

You sit down. The chair is soft. It is leather. It is warm. It is different from the metal chair. It is comfortable. You hate it. Comfort is a trap. It is a lie.

The man in the suit is there. He is sitting behind the desk. He is drinking coffee. The steam rises. It curls in the air. It looks like smoke.

"Sit down," he says.

You do not sit. You stand. You are tired of sitting. You are tired of the chairs. You are tired of the cold.

"I will not sign it," you say.

He puts the cup down. He looks at you. He does not smile. He does not frown. He is neutral. He is a machine.

"Why?" he asks.

"Because it is wrong."

"Wrong?" he says. "It is efficient. It is fair. It is the law."

"The law is a lie," you say.

He leans forward. He rests his elbows on the desk. He looks at you with interest.

"You have a point of view," he says. "That is good. People without point of view are easy to manage. But you are difficult. You are a problem."

"I am a person," you say.

"No," he says. "You are a variable. An equation. We need to balance the books. Thomas is the weight on the other side. If you add weight here, he goes up. If you remove weight here, he goes down. It is simple physics."

"You are talking about my brother."

"I am talking about stability. Order. Peace. Do you want to live in chaos? Do you want to see the world burn? Or do you want to live? Do you want Thomas to live?"

You think of Thomas. You think of his face. He is young. He is kind. He has your mother’s eyes. He is afraid. He is hurting. You can feel it. It is a pain in your own body. It is a ghost. It is a memory.

You think about the glass. In the dream, you picked it up. You cut yourself. You bled. You dropped it. It shattered.

You look at the paper. It is on the desk. It is white. It is innocent. It is a mask.

You reach for it. Your hand shakes. You grab the pen. It is silver. It is cold. It is smooth.

You sign your name. The letters are jagged. They are angry. They are ugly. They are yours.

You sign it.

The man in the suit looks at the paper. He smiles. It is a real smile this time. It is warm. It is kind. It is a lie.

"Thank you," he says. "You have made the right choice. You have saved him. You have saved us."

He stands up. He extends his hand. You do not shake it. You leave. You walk out of the room. You do not look back.

The guard follows you. He walks to the door. He opens it. He points down the hallway. You walk.

You walk to the cell. You walk to your cell. You walk to the cold. You walk to the dark.

The door closes. The light goes out.

You sit on the floor. You are alone. You are empty.

You think about the justice. You think about the system. You think about the lie.

You were right. It was wrong. It was unjust. It was cruel.

But you did it anyway.

You did it because you love him. You love Thomas. You love him with a fire that consumes you. You love him with a hunger that eats you alive. You love him beyond reason. You love him beyond logic. You love him like a beast loves its mate. Like a dog loves its master. Like a child loves its parent.

You are a traitor. You are a coward. You are a criminal.

You are a brother.

You close your eyes. You try to sleep. You try to dream.

You dream of the glass. It is whole. It is clear. It is perfect. You hold it in your hands. It is warm. It is smooth. It is beautiful.

You break it.

It shatters.

The sound is loud. It is clear. It is sharp.

It cuts your heart.

You wake up.

The cell is dark. The air is cold. The tile is cracked.

You are still here.

You are still you.

You are still broken.

The door opens. Light floods in. It is too bright. It hurts your eyes.

The man in the suit is there. He is smiling. He is kind. He is warm.

"Good morning," he says. "You look well. You look rested. You look free."

He holds a phone in his hand. He shows you the screen. It is a picture. It is Thomas. He is outside. He is in the sun. He is laughing. He is free.

"Go home," the man says. "You are free. You are done. You have paid your price. You have bought his life. It is a fair trade. It is a just trade."

You take the phone. You look at the picture. You look at Thomas. He is happy. He is alive. He is free.

You put the phone in your pocket. You stand up. Your legs are steady. They are strong. They are yours.

You walk out. You walk out of the cell. You walk out of the building. You walk into the city.

The city is loud. It is busy. It is alive. People are everywhere. They are walking. They are talking. They are living.

You walk with them. You are one of them. You are invisible. You are transparent. You are a ghost.

You walk to the park. You sit on a bench. The bench is cold. The wind is cold. The sky is grey.

You look at your hand. You look at the cut. It is healed. It is a scar. It is a line. It is a mark.

You remember the glass. You remember the shatter. You remember the blood.

You remember the truth.

You are free.

You are a prisoner.

You are a sinner.

You are a saint.

You are a brother.

You close your eyes. You breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

The world turns. The rain falls. The city moves.

You are still here.

You are still you.

You are still broken.