You wake in the cellar.

The air is thick. It smells of damp earth and old wool. Your head is heavy. A throb pulses behind your eyes. You do not remember falling. You do not remember the door closing. You only remember the weight of the silence above.

You sit up.

The floor is cold stone. It bites through the thin wool of your trousers. You are alone. You have always been alone here, in the dark. But today the dark feels different. It feels like a held breath.

You crawl toward the hatch.

It is set into the ceiling, high up. You cannot reach it. Your arms are too short. Your legs are too weak. You push your back against the stone wall. You wait. The minutes stretch out like taffy. They pull thin. They snap.

Then, a sound.

Scraping.

The hatch opens.

A beam of grey light cuts through the gloom. It lands on your face. You squint. You look up.

You see boots.

Brown leather. Worn at the toes. Dusty.

They belong to Arthur.

Your brother.

He stands on the ladder. He looks down at you. His face is pale. His eyes are red. He holds a lantern. The flame flickers. It casts long, dancing shadows on the rough stone walls.

"Thomas," he says.

His voice is small. It breaks.

"Thomas, I am sorry."

You do not speak. You cannot. Your throat is tight. You look at his hands. They are shaking. He holds a rope. It is thick. It is frayed at the end.

"Come up," he says.

He extends the rope.

It dangles in the air. It sways gently.

You look at it. You look at him.

You do not take it.

"Why?" you ask.

The word is a whisper. It barely leaves your lips.

Arthur stares at you. Confusion crosses his face. Then, fear.

"Because we must leave," he says. "The neighbors are talking. They saw the smoke. They saw the light. They know, Thomas. They know what you are. They are coming."

You close your eyes.

You remember the smoke. You remember the light. You remember the feeling of power. You remember the way the air crackled around you. You remember the warmth in your chest. It was not fire. It was something else. Something older.

You open your eyes.

"You are afraid," you say.

Arthur looks away. He bites his lip.

"Yes," he admits. "I am."

"Are you afraid of me?"

He does not answer.

His silence is louder than any scream.

You look at the rope.

It is a lifeline. It is a noose. It is both.

You think of your father. He used to say that roots hold the tree. Without roots, the tree falls. He used to say that to be safe, you must be still. You must be hidden. You must be small.

You have been small for so long.

You have been hidden for so long.

You are tired.

You reach out.

You take the rope.

Arthur pulls. You climb.

The ladder is steep. The wood is slick with sweat. Your fingers slip. You catch the rung. You climb.

The light grows brighter. The air grows warmer.

You reach the top.

Arthur pulls you through the hatch.

You land on the floor.

You are in the kitchen.

It is morning.

The sun streams through the window. It hits the dust motes. They dance in the air. They are golden.

Arthur stands over you. He is breathing hard. He is holding a knife.

It is short. It is sharp.

He looks at you. His face is hard. There is no softness left. There is no fear left. There is only duty.

"Go," he says.

You do not move.

"Go," he says again. His voice is steady. "Before I change my mind."

You look at the knife.

You look at his hands.

You realize he is not going to kill you.

He is going to cut you loose.

He is going to cut you away from this house. He is going to cut you away from him. He is going to cut you away from the only life you know.

You understand.

It is not an act of cruelty. It is an act of mercy.

He is saving you.

He is saving himself.

He is saving the house.

You stand up.

Your legs are shaky. You steady yourself against the table. The wood is cold. It feels real. It feels solid.

You look at Arthur.

You want to say something. You want to tell him that you love him. You want to tell him that you will miss him. You want to tell him that you are afraid.

But you do not say anything.

Words are heavy. Words are chains.

You nod.

Arthur nods back.

He turns his back to you.

He walks to the door.

He opens it.

The wind rushes in. It smells of rain. It smells of grass. It smells of the outside world.

You walk to the door.

You step out.

The grass is wet. It soaks your shoes. It chills your feet.

You look back at the house.

It is white. It is quiet. It is safe.

You look at Arthur.

He is watching you.

He raises his hand.

He waves.

It is a small gesture. It is weak. It is final.

You turn away.

You walk down the path.

The trees line the road. They are bare. They have lost their leaves. They look like bones.

You walk faster.

Your heart beats in your chest. It is a drum. It is a hammer. It is a bird trying to break out of its cage.

You walk until your legs give out.

You fall into the ditch.

The mud is cold. It is dirty. It is real.

You lie there.

You look up at the sky.

It is grey. It is vast. It is empty.

You feel a tear roll down your cheek.

You do not wipe it away.

You let it fall.

It lands in the mud.

It disappears.

You are alone.

You are free.

You are lost.

You close your eyes.

You dream of the cellar.

You dream of the rope.

You dream of the light.

You wake up.

You are still in the ditch.

The sun is setting. The sky is orange. The sky is red.

You stand up.

You brush the mud from your clothes.

You walk on.

You do not know where you are going.

You do not know who you are.

You do not know if you will survive.

But you walk.

You walk because you must.

You walk because you are alive.

You walk because the roots are gone.

And you can fly.