The glass shattered. Not broke. Shattered. Into a thousand jagged teeth that bit into the air of the old university library. Elias stood there, hands raised, the weight of the silence heavy as lead. Around him, the shelves bowed. The books did not fall. They waited.

You are wrong, he said to the air.

The air did not answer. The air was made of dust and dry rot and the smell of varnish.

He looked at the floor. The pieces of the mirror lay in a starburst pattern. A perfect constellation. He had been polishing it for hours. The cloth was stained with sweat. His hands trembled.

Margaret was not here. She was never here.

He picked up a shard. It was thin as a whisper. Sharp as a lie. He held it to the light. The light did not bend. It cut.

The door opened.

Professor Vance entered. His steps were soft. The wood did not creak. It absorbed his weight.

Elias, Vance said. His voice was dry. Like paper tearing.

I am here, Elias said.

You are late, Vance said.

The clock on the wall had no hands. It was a white circle. A void.

I was polishing, Elias said.

Polishing what, Vance asked.

The truth, Elias said.

Vance smiled. It was a small smile. It did not reach his eyes.

The truth is a dirty thing, Vance said. It needs cleaning. But it cannot be made clear.

Elias looked at the mirror shards.

It can, Elias said.

Can it, Vance said?

Elias felt a pull in his chest. A hook. It tugged at his ribs. He remembered Margaret. Her face. The way the light hit her hair. It was gold. It was bright. It was a lie.

Where is she, Elias asked.

She is in the library, Vance said.

Which library, Elias asked.

This one, Vance said.

Elias looked around. The shelves were empty. The books were gone. The air was thick.

I do not see her, Elias said.

You do not look with your eyes, Vance said.

How do I look, Elias asked.

With your heart, Vance said.

Elias closed his eyes. He felt the pain. It was sharp. It was red. It was warm.

I feel it, Elias said.

Then you are ready, Vance said.

Ready for what, Elias asked.

To break, Vance said.

Elias opened his eyes. The shards on the floor seemed to move. They formed a shape. A face. It was not Margaret. It was him. It was his own face, distorted. Screaming.

No, Elias said.

Yes, Vance said.

Elias threw the shard. It flew through the air. It struck the window. The window did not break. It absorbed the glass. The shard vanished.

You cannot break us, Elias said.

We are already broken, Vance said.

Elias felt a surge of anger. It was hot. It was bright. It burned in his throat.

I will not, Elias said.

You will, Vance said.

The door opened again.

Margaret entered.

She was wearing a white dress. It was stained with blood. Her hair was loose. It fell around her face. Her eyes were closed.

Margaret, Elias said. His voice was a whisper.

She did not open her eyes. She walked toward him. Her steps were slow. Her feet did not touch the ground.

Elias, she said. Her voice was soft. It was the sound of rain on leaves.

I am here, he said.

You are late, she said.

The words were the same. The tone was the same. It was a loop. A trap.

I cannot let you go, Elias said.

You must, she said.

Why, he asked.

Because it is time, she said.

He reached for her. His hand passed through her shoulder. It was cold. It was wet. It was nothing.

It is not real, he said.

It is real, she said.

He pulled his hand back. It was shaking. It was bleeding. The blood dripped onto the floor. It formed a puddle. The puddle reflected the ceiling. The ceiling was empty.

I love you, he said.

I know, she said.

That is not enough, he said.

It is all there is, she said.

Vance stepped forward. He stood between them. His shadow stretched long across the floor.

The system requires order, Vance said.

The system is a cage, Elias said.

The system is a home, Vance said.

A home for the dead, Elias said.

A home for the living, Vance said.

Elias looked at Margaret. She was fading. Her edges were blurred. She was becoming smoke.

Wait, he said.

Go, she said.

I will not, he said.

You must, she said.

He took a step forward. The floor shook. The dust fell from the ceiling. It settled on his shoulders. It was gray. It was heavy.

The truth, he said. What is it?

It is this, Vance said.

Elias looked at the mirror shards. They were gone. The floor was clean. It was smooth. It was white.

There is no mirror, he said.

There never was, Vance said.

There is no glass, he said.

There never was, Vance said.

There is no break, he said.

There never was, Vance said.

Elias felt the ground beneath him. It was solid. It was real. It was here.

Then where is she, he asked.

She is in your mind, Vance said.

No, he said.

Yes, Vance said.

Elias closed his eyes. He searched. He dug. He tore. He found nothing. He found only silence. He found only dark.

He opened his eyes.

The room was empty.

Vance was gone.

Margaret was gone.

The shelves were full. The books were there. The dust was there. The light was there.

He stood alone.

He looked at his hands. They were clean. They were dry. They were still.

He walked to the window. He looked out. The street was empty. The cars were parked. The trees were still. The sky was gray.

He went to the door. He opened it. He stepped out.

The air was cold. It was sharp. It was alive.

He walked down the path. The leaves crunched under his feet. They were brown. They were dry. They were real.

He walked to the park. The bench was there. The stone was cold. He sat down.

He looked at his hands. He looked at the sky.

He felt the pain. It was still there. It was dull. It was heavy. It was his.

He did not reach for it. He did not push it away. He let it be.

He sat in the silence.

The sun set. The light faded. The stars came out.

He was alone.

He was free.

The story ends. The pain remains. It is a stone in his pocket. It is heavy. It is smooth. It is his.

He will carry it. He will not drop it. He will not break it. He will let it be.

He is still.

The wind blows.

He is still.

The night comes.

He is still.