Marek woke from the dream with the taste of iron in his mouth. He lay still. The straw mattress was cold. The wind outside howled like a wounded dog. He knew what he had seen. The apple tree. The branch. The break.

He sat up. His hands shook. He looked at them. They were his hands. They were also the tree’s hands. He stood. He walked to the window. The glass was fogged. He wiped it with his sleeve. Outside, the village of Oakhaven sat in the dark. The houses were black boxes. The chimneys puffed grey smoke. It was safe. It was quiet. It was a lie.

He dressed quickly. He pulled on his wool shirt. He tied his boots. He took a knife from the hook. It was a hunting knife. Sharp. Clean. He needed it. He needed to cut the rot before it spread.

The door creaked. He stepped into the street. The cobblestones were wet. They reflected the moon. The light was thin. It made everything look like a ghost. He walked fast. His breath made clouds in the air. He saw faces in the shadows. He did not stop. He walked to the edge of the village.

He met Thomas on the bridge. Thomas was old. His hair was white. His eyes were blue. They were always blue. Thomas held a lantern. The flame jumped.

You are awake, Thomas said.

I am, Marek said.

Where are you going?

To the tree.

Thomas lowered the lantern. The light died. The bridge was dark.

The tree is dead, Thomas said.

No. It is sick. It needs cutting.

The people say it is cursed.

The people are wrong.

The people are afraid, Thomas said.

Fear is a tool, Marek said. Use it.

Thomas looked at him. He did not smile. He did not frown. He just looked.

Be careful, Thomas said.

Marek walked on. He crossed the fields. The grass was high. It brushed his legs. It felt like fingers. He could feel the pulse of the earth. It was fast. It was angry. He reached the orchard. The trees stood in rows. They were silent. He found the apple tree. It was the biggest one. Its bark was black. It was cracked. A branch hung low. It swayed in the wind.

Marek raised his knife. He looked at the wood. He saw the grain. He saw the sap. It was red. It was thick. He thought of his mother. She had been a gardener. She had loved the trees. She had said, *Listen to them, Marek. They tell you when they are in pain.* He had not listened. He had been too busy. He had been too proud. He had moved away. He had come back only because the dream told him to.

He cut.

The blade bit into the wood. It was hard. He pushed. The wood snapped. The branch fell. It hit the ground with a heavy thud. Marek stood back. He waited. The tree did not bleed. The tree did not scream. It just stood there. It was still.

He felt a weight lift from his chest. He felt lighter. He turned to leave.

He heard a voice.

Is that it?

Marek froze. He turned. A woman stood in the shadows. It was Elara. She was young. She had dark hair. She wore a grey dress. Her eyes were wide.

Yes, Marek said.

You broke it, Elara said.

I saved it.

You killed it, Elara said.

Marek looked at the tree. The branch was gone. The wound was open. The sap was drying. It looked like a scar. It looked like a mouth.

I did what I had to do, Marek said.

No, Elara said. You did what you wanted to do. You wanted to be the hero. You wanted to be the savior. You are not the savior. You are the disease.

Marek’s face felt hot. He felt the heat rise in his neck. He felt the anger. He grabbed his knife. He pointed it at her.

Stay away, Marek said.

Elara did not move. She looked at him. Her eyes were dry. They were sad.

You don’t know what you are, Elara said.

I know what I am. I am a man.

No, Elara said. You are a mirror.

Marek lowered the knife. He felt confused. He felt tired. He looked at the tree. He looked at the branch on the ground. He picked it up. It was heavy. He held it. He looked at the broken end. He saw the fibers. He saw the wood.

He remembered the dream. In the dream, the branch had not been broken. In the dream, the branch had been whole. In the dream, he had been holding it. He had been hugging it. He had been crying. He had been whispering to it. *I am sorry. I am sorry. I am here.*

He had not woken up from that part of the dream. He had only woken up from the break.

He realized the truth. He had not come to save the tree. He had come to break it. He had come to destroy the only thing that still loved him. He had come to punish the world for leaving him.

The realization hit him like a stone. It knocked the wind out of him. He dropped the branch. It rolled in the grass. He fell to his knees. The dirt was cold. It soaked into his knees. He felt small. He felt wrong.

Elara walked closer. She stopped in front of him. She did not touch him. She just stood there. She was a witness. She saw him. She saw the mistake.

It is too late, Elara said.

No, Marek said. It is never too late.

It is, Elara said.

Marek looked at the tree. The sap was hardening. The wound was closing. But it was closed wrong. It was scarred. It was ugly. It would never be the same.

He stood up. His legs were weak. He leaned on the trunk. The bark was rough. It scratched his cheek. He did not care. He looked at Elara.

Why? he asked.

Because you are afraid, Elara said.

Of what?

Of being loved, Elara said. Of being seen. Of being held. You break things because if they are broken, they cannot leave you. If they are broken, you are the only one who can fix them. You are the only one who matters.

Marek closed his eyes. He felt the words sink into him. They were true. They were cruel. They were the truth. He had always been this way. He had pushed people away. He had broken their trust. He had made them leave. And then he had blamed them. He had blamed the world. He had blamed the trees.

He opened his eyes. He looked at the tree. He saw himself in it. The cracks. The scars. The rot. He was the tree. He was the disease.

He looked at Elara. He saw her fear. He saw her pity. He saw her love. It was the same love. It was the love of the branch. It was the love of the dream. It was the love he had crushed.

I am sorry, Marek said.

Elara nodded. She did not speak. She turned and walked away. She did not look back. The grey dress disappeared into the dark. The field was empty.

Marek stood alone. The wind blew. It was colder now. The stars were out. They were bright. They were indifferent. He looked at the knife in his hand. He looked at the blade. It was clean. It was sharp. It was a tool. It was a weapon. It was a choice.

He thought of Thomas. Thomas had seen him. Thomas had known. Thomas had said, *Be careful.* Thomas had seen the rot. Thomas had seen the truth. Thomas was the witness. Thomas was the mirror.

Marek put the knife in his pocket. He walked back to the village. His steps were slow. They were heavy. He felt the weight of the branch on his shoulder. He did not have it. But he carried it. He would carry it for the rest of his life.

He entered the village. The houses were dark. The streets were empty. He walked to his cottage. The door was open. It had been open all along. He went inside. The room was cold. The bed was made. The chair was empty.

He sat down. He did not move. He looked at the wall. The wall was white. It was blank. He saw nothing. He felt nothing. He was empty. He was hollow. He was the shell of a man.

He waited. He waited for the dream to come back. He waited for the voice. He waited for the pain. But there was only silence. There was only the sound of his own breath. In. Out. In. Out.

He realized he was free. He was free from the need to fix. He was free from the need to save. He was free from the need to be the hero. He was just a man. He was broken. He was scarred. He was alive.

He lay down on the bed. The straw was cold. The air was still. He closed his eyes. He did not dream. He slept. He slept deeply. He slept without fear.

Outside, the apple tree stood in the dark. The branch lay on the ground. The sap was dry. The wood was dead. The tree was alone. The tree was quiet. The tree was free.

The sun rose. The light came through the window. It hit Marek’s face. He did not wake up. He stayed in the dark. He stayed in the silence. He was the witness to his own ending. He was the mirror that shattered. He was the blade that cut itself.

He was gone.

The village woke up. The bells rang. The smoke rose. The people walked. They did not know. They did not care. They lived their lives. They made their mistakes. They broke their things. They forgot.

But the tree remembered. The tree kept the secret. The tree held the wound. The tree stood tall. The tree was the truth. The tree was the only one who knew.

And that was enough.