The bell above the door did not ring. It was silent.

It should have rung.

Elara stood at the center of the room. She was small. Too small for the space. The room was a cell. It was white. The walls were smooth stone. The floor was cold. She wore a dress. It was blue. It was old. It was her mother’s dress.

The dress was tight. It pulled at her shoulders. It dug into her waist. She did not move. She could not move.

A shadow fell across the floor. It was long. It was thin. It stretched from the door to her feet.

“You are early,” said the voice.

It came from the shadow.

Elara looked up. The man was tall. He wore a coat. The coat was black. It was long. It touched the floor. He had no face. Only a white mask. The mask was smooth. It had no eyes. It had no mouth.

“I am on time,” Elara said.

Her voice was soft. It was quiet.

“You are late,” the man said.

He stepped forward. His feet made no sound.

The room was hot. It was dry. The air was thick. It tasted of dust. It tasted of old paper.

Elara looked down at her hands. They were shaking. She looked at the dress. The blue fabric was stiff. It was hard. It was like wood.

“What is this place?” she asked.

“The Threshold,” the man said.

“It is not a place,” Elara said.

“It is a door,” the man said.

“Where does it lead?”

“Nowhere.”

The man stopped in front of her. He was close. She could smell him. He smelled of rain. He smelled of iron.

“You brought the garment,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I have to.”

“You do not have to.”

“I do.”

The man tilted his head. The mask was still. It was blank.

“You think you are saving someone,” he said.

“I am saving myself,” Elara said.

“No.”

The room shifted. The white walls rippled. The light changed. It turned gray.

Elara felt a pain in her chest. It was sharp. It was deep.

She thought of Thomas.

Thomas was gone. He was in the city. He was in the crowd. He was invisible.

She had left him. She had left him because he was afraid. He was afraid of the noise. He was afraid of the eyes.

She had taken the dress. She had worn it for three days. She had not eaten. She had not slept.

The dress was her skin. The dress was her soul.

“Thomas is dead,” the man said.

Elara closed her eyes.

“No,” she said.

“He is gone. He is dust.”

“He is waiting.”

“For what?”

“For me.”

The man laughed. It was a dry sound. It was like cracking bones.

“You are a fool, child.”

“I am a wife,” Elara said.

The word hung in the air. It was heavy. It was real.

The man looked at her. The mask seemed to move. It seemed to breathe.

“A wife,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“Wives do not sacrifice their flesh. They sacrifice their silence.”

Elara opened her eyes. She looked at the dress. The blue was fading. It was turning gray. It was turning white.

She pulled at the hem. The fabric did not tear. It stretched. It burned.

She felt the heat. It was in her blood. It was in her bones.

She did not scream. She could not scream.

The room was dark now. The white was gone. The gray was gone. There was only the dark.

And the man.

He was closer. He was touching her. His hand was on her shoulder. His hand was cold. It was ice.

“Let go,” he said.

“No.”

“Let go, Elara.”

“I will not.”

He pushed her. She fell. She hit the floor. The stone was hard. It hurt.

She lay there. She looked at the dress. It was glowing. It was a faint light. It was a blue light.

It was the only light in the room.

The man stood over her. He was tall. He was huge. He was the wall. He was the door.

“You cannot cross,” he said.

“I can.”

“You will burn.”

“I will freeze.”

“You will cease.”

“I will find him.”

The man raised his hand. His hand was a claw. His fingers were long. They were black.

He reached for her face.

Elara did not move. She watched him. She watched the black fingers. She watched the white mask.

She thought of Thomas.

She thought of his hands. His hands were warm. His hands were rough. They had smelled of wood. They had smelled of bread.

She had held them. She had held them in the dark.

She was not afraid.

The man touched her forehead.

It was cold.

It was so cold.

She felt her thoughts slowing. She felt her heart slowing.

She felt the dress tightening. It was wrapping around her. It was wrapping around her bones.

It was becoming her.

The pain was gone. The fear was gone. There was only the cold.

The cold was quiet.

The cold was kind.

She looked up. The mask was gone.

There was a face.

It was a man’s face. It was young. It was pale. It was beautiful.

It was Thomas.

His eyes were open. They were dark. They were deep.

He was smiling.

It was a small smile. It was sad. It was true.

“Elara,” he said.

His voice was in her head. It was not in the air.

“I am here,” she said.

“I know,” he said.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because you let go.”

“I did not let go.”

“You let go of yourself.”

The room was bright now. It was white. It was pure.

The man was gone. The mask was gone. There was only light.

There was only Thomas.

He was standing there. He was wearing a coat. It was blue. It was the same blue as her dress.

He reached out. His hand was warm.

Elara reached out. Her hand was cold.

They touched.

The cold vanished. The heat vanished. There was only the touch.

It was a spark. It was a fire. It was a life.

The room dissolved. The stone was gone. The air was gone.

There was only the two of them.

They were floating. They were drifting.

They were far away. They were high up.

Below them, there was a city. It was small. It was far.

The city was silent.

Elara looked at Thomas. He was looking at her.

“I am sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

“For leaving.”

“You did not leave. You followed.”

She nodded. She did not understand. She did not want to understand.

She looked at her hands. They were not shaking. They were still.

She looked at her dress. It was gone. She was bare. She was naked. She was open.

She felt the wind. It was warm. It was soft.

It smelled of rain. It smelled of iron.

It smelled of Thomas.

The light was fading. The white was turning gray.

The gray was turning black.

But she was not afraid.

Thomas took her hand. He held it tight.

They sank. They fell.

They fell into the dark.

They fell into the silence.

They fell into the end.

The door closed.

The bell did not ring.

It was silent.

It was always silent.

The dress remained on the floor. It was blue. It was old. It was whole.

It waited.

It did not move.

It did not age.

It was there.

It was always there.

In the white room.

In the dark.

In the silence.

The dress was the truth.

The dress was the lie.

The dress was the love.

It was the only thing that stayed.

The only thing that endured.

The only thing that mattered.

The threshold was closed.

The child was gone.

The wife was gone.

The man was gone.

Only the garment remained.

Blue.

Quiet.

Alive.

The story ended.

The silence began.

The end was not a door.

The end was a wall.

The wall was smooth.

The wall was white.

The wall was cold.

It was the same wall.

It was always the same wall.

Elara was in the wall.

Thomas was in the wall.

The dress was on the wall.

There was no out.

There was no in.

There was only the being.

The being was heavy.

The being was light.

The being was everything.

The being was nothing.

The being was the dress.

The dress was the being.

The blue was the soul.

The soul was the blue.

It was a trap.

It was a gift.

It was a cage.

It was a home.

It was the end.

It was the beginning.

It was the middle.

It was the only thing.

The silence was loud.

The silence was loud.

The silence was loud.

The dress hung.

The dress hung.

The dress hung.

Forever.

Always.

Now.