The glass was thin.

I held it up to the light. A hairline fracture ran from the rim to the center. It looked like a vein. Or a tear. I set it down. It chimed. A low, dull sound.

My hands shook.

They always shook when the house woke up. The floorboards groaned under my weight. I was late. I was always late. The clock on the mantle ticked with a violence that matched my pulse.

*Get ready, Arthur.*

The voice was in my head. It was my voice, but older. Weaker.

I pulled on my coat. The wool smelled of dust and lavender. Old scents. Safe scents. I walked to the kitchen. The window was fogged. Outside, the fog rolled in from the river. It swallowed the streetlamps. It swallowed the world.

I needed to work. I needed to pay the bills. I needed to forget.

I grabbed my briefcase. Leather. Heavy. Inside, the ledger. Inside, the truth.

I opened the door. The cold hit me. It felt like a slap.

The street was empty. The cobblestones were slick with rain. I walked fast. My shoes slapped the ground. *Slap. Slap. Slap.*

The factory loomed in the distance. Black brick. Smokestacks like dead trees. The air tasted of coal and iron.

I worked the floor. I moved the boxes. I counted the stock. I kept my head down.

"Arthur."

I froze.

Silas stood behind me. He was tall. He wore a gray suit that had seen better decades. His face was pale. His eyes were dark.

"You look tired," he said.

"I'm fine," I said.

"Liar."

He smiled. It did not reach his eyes.

"Did you bring the glass?" he asked.

I touched my pocket. My heart hammered against my ribs.

"Yes."

"Good."

He turned away. His coat swished. The smell of tobacco lingered.

I stayed by the crate. I stared at the floor. The tiles were cracked. Just like the glass.

*Break it.*

The voice in my head was louder now.

*Let it go.*

The shift ended. The whistle blew. A shrill scream.

I packed my bag. Silas was waiting by the door. He leaned against the wall. He smoked a pipe. The smoke curled into the dark.

"Walk with me," he said.

I nodded.

We walked in silence. The fog thickened. The buildings blurred.

"Why do you do this?" I asked.

"Do what?"

"Run. Hiding. Counting."

Silas exhaled. A cloud of smoke.

"Because if I stop, I fall," he said.

"Fall where?"

"Down. Into the dark."

I looked at him. He looked at the fog.

"You don't have to," I said.

He turned to me. His face was a mask.

"I do," he said. "It is the only way to keep the blade from turning."

The blade.

The word hung in the air.

"What blade?" I asked.

Silas did not answer. He reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small object. He held it out to me.

It was a shard. Glass. Blue.

I took it. It was cold. It cut my palm. A thin line of blood appeared.

"Keep it," he said.

"Whose is this?"

"My mother's," he said. "And yours."

I stared at the shard. It reflected the streetlight. A tiny, jagged star.

"Go home, Arthur," he said. "Lock the door."

He walked away. He disappeared into the fog.

I stood alone. The rain began to fall. It was cold. It was sharp.

I ran home.

The house was dark. The windows were black eyes. I fumbled for the key. My hand slipped. The key hit the ground. *Clatter.*

I picked it up. It was wet.

I opened the door. I stepped inside. I locked it. I threw the bolt.

I went to the kitchen. I placed the shard on the table. Next to the other glass. The one with the crack.

I looked at them.

Two pieces. Two cracks.

I sat down. My legs gave way.

I remembered the night. Ten years ago. The storm. The house on the hill.

Margaret.

Her name was a knife.

She stood by the window. The wind howled. The glass shattered. Not from the wind. From inside.

She looked at me. Her face was calm.

"Let it break, Arthur," she said.

I had screamed. I had tried to stop it. I had tried to hold the pieces together.

I failed.

She fell. The shard pierced her hand. Then her chest.

I ran. I ran until my lungs burned. I ran into the city. I got a job. I got a life.

I built a cage of routine. I buried the memory under layers of work. Under layers of silence.

But the glass remembers.

I looked at the shard on the table.

*You are not safe.*

The voice was not mine. It was hers.

I stood up. My legs were weak. I walked to the window. The fog was outside. It pressed against the glass.

I saw a figure.

Silas.

He was standing in the street. He was holding a large knife. A blade. It was long and curved.

He raised it.

He did not attack me.

He cut the fog.

The fog parted. Like a curtain.

Behind him, the house on the hill.

It was still there. The roof was caved in. The windows were broken.

I stared.

Time had not passed. Or it had.

The blade in Silas's hand glinted.

He looked at me. He smiled.

"It is time to pay the debt," he said.

I backed away. My hand hit the table. The shard slid.

It fell.

It hit the floor.

*Crack.*

The sound was loud. It was final.

The room changed.

The walls dissolved. The floor became the garden. The dirt was wet. The roses were black.

Margaret was there.

She was whole. She was standing in the rain.

She looked at me. Her eyes were full of sorrow.

"Arthur," she said. "You cannot escape the cycle."

"I tried," I said. My voice was a whisper. "I tried to be normal. I tried to be good."

"Goodness is a blade," she said. "It cuts both ways."

I looked at Silas. He was gone. Only the knife remained. It lay on the grass.

The blade was covered in blood.

My blood.

I looked at my hand. The cut was deep. The blood flowed.

I realized the truth.

The glass was not the object.

The glass was me.

I was the fracture. I was the weakness in the structure.

I had broken us. I had broken her. I had broken myself.

The cycle.

I run. I hide. I break. I pay.

I run. I hide. I break. I pay.

It never ends.

I looked at Margaret.

"I'm sorry," I said.

She shook her head.

"Do not be sorry," she said. "Be free."

She reached out. Her hand was cold.

I took it.

The world spun.

The garden faded. The house faded. The fog faded.

I was in my kitchen.

The table was empty.

The shard was gone.

The glass with the crack was gone.

There was only the table. The wood was smooth.

I looked at my hand.

It was clean.

I was free.

Or was I?

I walked to the door. I opened it.

The street was empty. The fog was gone. The sun was rising. It was a pale, cold light.

I stepped outside.

The air was crisp. It smelled of rain.

I walked. I did not know where I was going.

I walked to the river.

The water was black. It moved slowly.

I stood on the bank.

I looked at my reflection.

It was not my face.

It was Silas's face.

Then it was Margaret's face.

Then it was no face.

Just the water.

I picked up a stone.

It was heavy.

I threw it.

It hit the water.

*Plop.*

Ripples spread. They grew. They faded.

The cycle.

I turned away.

I walked back to the city.

I went to work.

I moved the boxes. I counted the stock.

I kept my head down.

The clock ticked.

*Tick. Tock.*

I was late.

I was always late.

But I was ready.

I reached into my pocket.

I felt the sharp edge.

The shard.

It was still there.

It cut my skin.

A drop of blood fell.

It hit the floor.

*Drop.*

The glass in the corner shattered.

Not from the wind.

From inside.

I closed my eyes.

I let it break.