The carriage shudders to a halt. You step out onto the mossy earth. The air is thick. It smells of rot and iron. This is the Hollow. It is not a place on any map. It is a space of memory. You are Eleanor. You are old. Your knees ache. Your breath is shallow. You carry a satchel. Inside the satchel is the cure. It is a small, glass vial. The liquid inside glows with a faint, sickly green. It is distilled from nightshade and moonlight. It is meant to save your daughter, Margaret. Margaret is trapped. She is trapped in the tower. The tower stands at the center of the Hollow. It is black stone. It is jagged. It looks like a broken tooth. You have come to free her. Or so you believe. That is the first lie. You do not know it is a lie. You only know the fear. The fear is a cold stone in your gut. It has been there for ten years. Ten years since the fever took her voice. Ten years since the doctors shook their heads. Ten years since you promised God you would bring her back. You climb the path. The roots grab at your ankles. They are like fingers. They are trying to pull you down. You ignore them. You focus on the tower. You focus on the vial. You check it. It is intact. The liquid swirls. It looks like poison. It looks like life. You reach the door. It is heavy. It is iron. It is warm to the touch. You push. It groans. It opens. The darkness inside is absolute. It presses against your eyes. You enter. You light a candle. The flame flickers. It is the only light. You walk deeper. The air grows colder. You hear a sound. It is a whisper. It is a laugh. It is Margaret. You run. You run up the stairs. They are narrow. They are steep. Your lungs burn. Your legs shake. You do not stop. You reach the top. There is a room. It is small. It is bare. There is a bed. There is a chair. And there is Margaret. She sits in the chair. She is thin. She is pale. Her hair is white. She is not a child. She is not a young woman. She is an old woman. She looks just like you. She looks exactly like you. She turns. Her eyes are dark. Her eyes are hollow. She smiles. The smile is wrong. It is too wide. It shows too many teeth.

"Mother," she says.

Her voice is scratchy. It is dry. It is the voice of the earth. You drop the satchel. The vial hits the floor. It does not break. It glows. It pulses. You look at Margaret. You look at the vial. You look at your own hands. They are wrinkled. They are spotted. They are the hands of an old woman. You are not young. You have never been young. You are the age of the tower. You are the age of the rot. You realize it then. The second turn. The truth hits you like a physical blow. You are not saving her. You are feeding her. The vial is not a cure. It is a transfer. It is a bridge. It is meant to take your remaining years. It is meant to give them to her. To make her young. To make her strong. To make her whole. You made this promise. You made it when she was a child. You made it when the fever broke. You made it in a moment of desperation. You made it to a thing that was not God. You made it to the Hollow. You made it to the dark. And the Hollow kept its word. It has kept its word for ten years. It has kept its word until now. Until you arrived. Until you brought the fuel.

Margaret stands up. She moves with a grace that you do not have. She moves with a speed that you do not have. She walks toward you. She does not look at the vial. She looks at you. She looks through you. She sees the fear. She sees the love. She sees the choice.

"Do it," she says.

Her voice is gentle. It is cruel. It is the voice of a daughter who has waited too long. She wants to live. She wants to feel the sun. She wants to hear the birds. She wants to be free. She has been in this tower for ten years. She has been in the dark. She has been in the cold. She is tired. She is so tired. You pick up the vial. The glass is warm. It vibrates in your hand. You uncork it. The smell is sweet. It is cloying. It is the smell of death. It is the smell of rebirth. You look at Margaret. She is beautiful. She is terrible. She is your shadow. She is your mirror. She is the part of you that you tried to kill. She is the part of you that survived. You hold the vial to your lips. You are ready. You are willing. You are certain. This is the third turn. The point of no return. You open your mouth. You let the liquid flow. It is cold. It burns. It tastes of ash. It tastes of honey. It tastes of time.

You swallow.

Nothing happens.

Not at first. You wait. You hold your breath. You look at Margaret. She watches you. She waits. She expects the pain. She expects the transfer. She expects the light. But there is no light. There is only the dark. And the silence. And the sound of your own heartbeat. It is slow. It is weak. It is fading. You look at the vial. It is empty. You look at your hands. They are not wrinkled. They are not spotted. They are smooth. They are pale. They are the hands of a young woman. You look at Margaret. She is not old. She is not white-haired. She is not thin. She is a child. She is the age she was when the fever took her. She is seven years old. She is terrified. She is crying.

"Mother?" she whimpers.

You fall to your knees. The floor is cold. The stone is hard. You look at your hands again. You flex your fingers. They are strong. They are fast. They are alive. You have not given your life to her. You have not traded your years for her youth. You have done something else. You have done something worse. You have reversed the flow. You have taken her childhood back. You have stolen it from her. You have trapped her in the body of a child. You have trapped her in the past. You have made her small. You have made her helpless. You have made her dependent. You have made her yours. Again. Forever.

This is the fourth turn. The final recognition. The tragedy is not that you die. The tragedy is that you live. The tragedy is that you are young. The tragedy is that she is small. You are the monster. You are the tower. You are the dark. You are the one who stays. You are the one who feeds. You are the one who waits. You look at the child. She looks up at you. Her eyes are wide. Her eyes are full of fear. She does not understand why you are crying. She does not understand why the air is so heavy. She does not understand why the world has changed. She only knows that she is small. She only knows that she is alone. She only knows that you are there.

You reach out. You take her hand. Her hand is tiny. It is warm. It is trembling. You hold it. You squeeze it. You are gentle. You are careful. You are patient. You have all the time in the world. You have the time of the Hollow. You have the time of the rot. You have the time of the dark. You will keep her. You will protect her. You will love her. You will consume her. You will eat her life. You will drink her youth. You will wear her face. You will be her mother. You will be her prison. You will be her curse.

The candle burns low. The flame flickers. It is the only light. You look at the door. It is closed. It is heavy. It is iron. It is warm to the touch. You do not open it. You do not want to leave. You do not want to go back. You do not want the sun. You do not want the birds. You do not want the world. You only want this. You only want her. You only want the silence. You only want the dark. You only want the promise.

The promise is kept.

You sit on the floor. You pull the child into your lap. She is small. She is light. She is yours. You stroke her hair. It is dark. It is soft. It is real. You look at the vial. It is empty. It is clean. It is useless. You throw it away. It shatters. The glass is sharp. The glass is bright. The glass is gone.

You are young.

She is small.

The tower stands.

The dark presses in.

You wait.

You always wait.

You are the mother.

You are the wall.

You are the end.