The banquet hall was a cavern of low, vaulted ceilings, painted in hues of bruised purple and fading gold. It smelled of roasted lamb, spilled wine, and the heavy, cloying sweetness of lilies that lined the long table in silver vases. There was no sun here. There was no moon. There was only the light that seemed to seep from the stone itself, a pale, ghostly luminescence that cast no shadows but made everyone look like they were carved from wax.

Maren sat at the head of the table, though she did not feel like a queen. She felt like a guest who had forgotten where she had parked her car. Across from her, Julian smiled. It was a perfect smile, symmetrical and white, the kind of smile that belonged on a porcelain figurine. He was the only other person in the room who spoke, or at least, the only one who spoke to her. The others sat in their chairs, their faces blurred, their mouths moving in silent, rhythmic unison, eating food that did not disappear.

"You look tired, Maren," Julian said. His voice was smooth, like water over polished stone.

"I’m not tired," Maren said. She picked up a silver fork. It was cold to the touch. "I’m just... waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"For the end," she said. "Or the beginning. It’s hard to tell which is which here."

Julian laughed. It was a dry sound, like the rustle of dry leaves. "You are always so dramatic. We have been here for three days. Or perhaps three years. Time is a suggestion, Maren, not a law. Eat. The pheasant is lovely. It tastes of memory, if you close your eyes."

Maren took a bite. It was tender, rich, and utterly devoid of flavor. She chewed mechanically, watching the other guests. One of them, a woman with hair the color of rust, looked up. For a second, their eyes met. The woman’s expression was one of profound, terrifying recognition. Then she looked away, returning to the silent ritual of chewing.

"Do you know her?" Maren asked.

Julian waved his hand dismissively. "A minor spirit. A fragment of someone’s regret. Do not concern yourself with the background noise, Maren. You are the protagonist of this scene. Act accordingly."

"I don’t want to act," Maren said. "I want to leave."

"You cannot leave," Julian said. "Not yet. You have not earned your exit. You have not paid your debt."

"What debt?"

"The debt of your choice," Julian said. "You chose to stay. You chose to believe that there was a way back. That is the price of hope, Maren. It is a heavy thing to carry in a place where weight does not exist."

Maren looked around the room. The lilies were wilting, even in the eternal twilight. The petals were turning black at the edges, falling onto the tablecloth in a slow, silent snow. She felt a tightness in her chest, a familiar ache that she had carried for so long she had forgotten it was a pain. It was the ache of a door that had been closed from the outside.

"I remember the rain," Maren said suddenly.

Julian paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. "Rain? There is no rain here."

"Outside," Maren said. "In the world I came from. It was raining. I was standing on the porch. I was watching the water run down the glass. And I thought, I can’t do this anymore. And then I stepped into the dark."

"You stepped into the dark," Julian repeated. "Yes. And the dark took you in. You are here because you were ready to be here. You were tired of the struggle. You wanted the peace of the pause. But peace, Maren, is not a destination. It is a state of mind. And you are not at peace."

"Why?" Maren asked. "I gave up everything. I let go of the fight. I let go of the anger. I let go of the grief. What more do you want from me?"

"Acceptance," Julian said. "True acceptance. Not the surrender of defeat, but the surrender of understanding. You think you are a prisoner here. But you are not. You are a mirror. And you are afraid of what you see."

Maren looked at the woman with the rust-colored hair again. The woman was now staring directly at her. Her face was no longer blurred. It was Maren’s face. Older, sadder, but unmistakably Maren. The woman opened her mouth, and though no sound came out, Maren heard her words in her head.

*You are the one who left.*

Maren’s heart hammered against her ribs. "Who is that?" she whispered.

"She is you," Julian said softly. "The part of you that stayed behind. The part of you that you sacrificed to survive. She is waiting for you to acknowledge her. To invite her to the table. To let her eat."

"I don’t want to share the table," Maren said. Her voice was trembling. "I don’t want to share anything. I am alone. I have always been alone."

"Are you?" Julian asked. "Look at the lilies, Maren. Look at how they fall. Do they fall alone?"

Maren looked at the blackened petals. They drifted down, one by one, landing on the silver plates, on the white tablecloth, on the hands of the silent guests. They did not rot. They simply lay there, a layer of dark dust.

"I feel like I’m disappearing," Maren said.

"You are integrating," Julian corrected. "The separation is the illusion. The unity is the truth. But you must choose it. You must stop fighting the current. You must stop trying to swim upstream. Let the water take you."

Maren looked at Julian. His smile was still there, but it seemed thinner now, less certain. Was he guiding her? Or was he keeping her?

"If I stop fighting," Maren said, "what happens?"

"You become the room," Julian said. "You become the light. You become the silence. You become the hunger that never ends."

"That sounds like death," Maren said.

"It sounds like peace," Julian said. "Is there a difference?"

Maren thought about the rain. She thought about the porch. She thought about the cold water running down the glass. She thought about the life she had left behind. The mess of it. The pain of it. The beautiful, terrible complexity of it. She had left it because it was too much. Because she could not bear the weight of being a person in a world that demanded so much of her. Here, there was no demand. There was only the endless, pale stillness.

But was it stillness? Or was it stagnation?

Maren looked at the woman who was herself. The woman raised a hand and touched her own cheek. Maren felt the touch. It was cold. It was real.

"I’m afraid," Maren said.

"Good," Julian said. "Fear is the last sign of life. Do not let it go. Not yet."

Maren set down her fork. She looked around the room. The silent guests were still eating. The lilies were still falling. The light was still pale and unchanging. It was perfect. It was sterile. It was a trap.

"I won’t stop fighting," Maren said.

Julian’s smile faltered. For the first time, there was a crack in the porcelain. "You will," he said. "Everyone does. Eventually. They get tired. They get hungry. They get lonely. And they accept the meal."

"I’m not lonely," Maren said. "I’m angry."

"Anger is just fear with a backbone," Julian said. "And backbones break."

"Maybe," Maren said. "But I’d rather break than dissolve."

She stood up. The chair scraped against the stone floor, a sharp, jarring sound that echoed in the vaulted ceiling. The silent guests stopped eating. They all turned to look at her. Their faces were blank, waiting.

"Maren," Julian said. His voice was no longer smooth. It was strained. "Sit down. Please."

"No," Maren said. "I’m going to find the door."

"There is no door," Julian said. "There is only the wall."

"Then I’ll break the wall," Maren said.

"You are not strong enough," Julian said. "You are a ghost, Maren. Ghosts do not break walls. Ghosts fade."

"Then let me fade," Maren said. "But let me fade on my own terms."

She walked away from the table. The floor was cold under her bare feet. She walked toward the far end of the room, where the light seemed to thicken. Julian did not follow her. He remained seated, his face a mask of polite confusion.

Maren walked until she could see the wall. It was made of the same pale stone as the floor. It was seamless. It was infinite. She pressed her hand against it. It was solid. It was real.

She pushed.

Nothing happened.

She pushed harder.

Her arms trembled. Her muscles burned. She was tired. She was so tired. But she did not stop. She thought of the rain. She thought of the pain. She thought of the life she had left behind. She pulled that pain into her chest, and she held it tight. She used it as fuel.

The stone did not move.

But Maren did not move either. She stood there, her hand pressed against the wall, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She was not a queen. She was not a ghost. She was a woman who was angry, and afraid, and alive.

Behind her, she heard Julian sigh. It was a long, weary sound.

"Maren," he said. "You are making a scene."

"I’m making a difference," she said.

"You are making a mistake," Julian said. "The room is beautiful. The food is good. The company is pleasant. Why do you want to leave?"

"Because I belong there," Maren said. "In the mess. In the pain. In the rain."

"The rain is cold," Julian said. "The pain is sharp. The mess is confusing. Here, there is order."

"Order is death," Maren said.

"Is it?" Julian asked. "Or is it peace?"

Maren turned around. Julian was still sitting at the table. He was looking at her with eyes that were no longer kind. They were cold. They were ancient.

"I will wait," Julian said. "I have all the time in the world. I will wait until you are hungry. I will wait until you are tired. I will wait until you forget what the rain sounds like. And then you will come back. And you will eat. And you will stay."

Maren looked at the wall. She looked at her hand. It was shaking.

"I won’t forget," she said.

"We will see," Julian said.

Maren turned back to the wall. She pressed her forehead against the stone. It was cold. It was solid. It was real. She closed her eyes. She breathed. She waited.

The lilies continued to fall. The silent guests continued to eat. The light continued to glow.

And Maren stood there, a small, stubborn shadow against the pale, eternal wall, refusing to fade.