The chandelier was made of teeth.

Not human. Not quite. They were ivory-white, translucent, arranged in a spiral that descended from the ceiling like a frozen tornado. It hung in the center of the room. The room was small. Square. Concrete walls. No windows.

I stood beneath it. My hands trembled. I looked at them. They were steady. Only the fingers shook.

Margaret stood beside me. She wore a grey dress. It was too clean. Too stiff. She smelled of starch and old paper.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

Her voice was flat. It did not rise. It did not fall. It stayed in the middle.

"I am," I said.

I was not ready. I was terrified. But I said the words. They felt heavy in my mouth. Like stones.

The director entered. He was tall. Thin. He wore a suit that fit too well. He smiled. The smile did not reach his eyes.

"James," he said. "Step forward."

I stepped forward. My shoes squeaked on the concrete. The sound was loud. It echoed. I hated the sound. I hated the silence that followed.

The director pointed to a pedestal. On it sat a bowl. The bowl was black. It was smooth. It looked like a hole in the air.

"Your contribution," the director said.

Margaret looked at me. Her eyes were wide. She did not blink. I saw the fear in them. But I also saw something else. A hunger. A dark, wet thing.

I reached into my pocket. I pulled out the object. It was small. It was cold. It was a key.

No. Not a key.

It was a bone.

A finger bone. Small. White. It was from a bird. I had found it in the park. It was beautiful. It was perfect. I had kept it for three months. I had polished it with my thumb. I knew every curve. I knew every flaw.

I placed it in the bowl.

It made a sound. A click. Soft. Final.

The chandelier above us pulsed.

A light shifted. The teeth turned. Just a fraction. A degree. It was barely noticeable. But I saw it. Margaret saw it.

The director nodded.

"Acceptable," he said.

He walked away. He did not look back.

The room was quiet again. The air was thick. It felt heavy on my skin.

"Done?" Margaret asked.

I nodded.

I felt lighter. I felt empty. The space where the bone had been in my pocket felt wrong. It was a gap. A void.

We sat on the bench. It was cold. It was hard. The concrete seeped through the fabric of my trousers.

"Why do we do this?" I asked.

Margaret did not answer immediately. She looked at the chandelier. She traced the spiral with her eye.

"Because it grows," she said.

It did grow. I had seen it last week. It was larger. The teeth were sharper. The light was brighter. It was beautiful. It was terrifying.

"We are feeding it," I said.

"Yes," she said.

"And we are free," I said.

She looked at me. Her face was pale. Her lips were thin.

"Are we?" she asked.

I did not have an answer.

The door opened. Another man entered. He was young. He looked confused. He looked lost.

"Thomas," the director said.

Thomas walked in. He was shaking. His hands were empty.

"Your contribution," the director said.

Thomas closed his eyes. He took a breath. He opened his hand.

There was nothing there.

The director frowned.

"Empty," the director said.

Thomas opened his other hand.

There was a watch.

It was a gold watch. It was thick. It was heavy. It ticked. The sound was loud. It was frantic.

Thomas placed it in the bowl.

The chandelier pulsed. Hard. The teeth rattled.

The light flared.

Thomas collapsed.

He fell onto the concrete. He did not move.

The director walked over. He looked at Thomas. He did not help him.

"Rejected," the director said.

He walked out.

The door closed.

Silence.

I looked at Thomas. His face was still. His eyes were open. They were staring at the ceiling. At the chandelier.

Margaret stood up.

"Come," she said.

I did not move.

"James," she said.

Her voice was sharp.

I stood up. My legs felt weak.

We walked to the door.

It was locked.

"Wait," I said.

Margaret turned.

"Thomas is dead," I said.

She looked at the body. She did not show emotion.

"He is no longer here," she said.

"We can call someone," I said.

"No one comes," she said.

"Then we are trapped," I said.

"We are contained," she said.

The word hung in the air.

We stood in the room. The chandelier spun slowly. The teeth caught the light. They sparkled.

I thought about the bone. I thought about the park. I thought about the birds. They were free. They flew. They were alive.

I had given a piece of a dead thing.

I had kept it.

I had loved it.

Or was it love?

It was possession.

It was control.

I looked at Margaret. She was looking at the door.

"What happens next?" I asked.

"We wait," she said.

"For what?"

"For the next one."

The door opened.

A woman entered. She was old. She wore a shawl. She held a basket.

"Margaret," the director said. "James."

He pointed to the woman.

"Your contribution," he said.

The woman looked at us. Her eyes were kind. Her eyes were sad.

She stepped forward.

She opened the basket.

Inside was a doll.

It was old. It was worn. Its dress was tattered. Its face was cracked.

It was beautiful.

It was broken.

The woman held it out.

She did not put it in the bowl.

She held it against her chest.

"I will not give it," she said.

The room went silent.

The director’s face changed. The smile vanished.

"You will," he said.

"No," she said.

Her voice was strong. It was steady. It was different from the others.

It was defiance.

The chandelier stopped.

The light dimmed.

The director stepped forward.

"Take it from her," he said.

Margaret moved.

She grabbed the woman’s arm.

The woman struggled. She kicked. She screamed.

"Let me go!" she cried.

Margaret held on.

She was strong. She was silent.

I watched.

I did not move.

I should have moved.

I knew I should have moved.

I stood still.

I watched the violence.

I watched the fear.

I watched the pain.

And I felt... nothing.

I felt clean.

I felt light.

The woman’s scream cut through the air. It was high. It was sharp. It was the sound of a bird in a trap.

My bird.

My bone.

I looked at the bowl.

The bowl was waiting.

The chandelier was waiting.

I looked at Margaret.

She was pulling the doll from the woman’s hands.

The woman fell to the floor. She curled up. She cried.

Margaret held the doll.

She looked at me.

Her eyes were bright.

She smiled.

It was a sad smile.

It was a proud smile.

She placed the doll in the bowl.

The chandelier erupted.

Light blinding.

Sound deafening.

The teeth turned. They spun. They became a blur.

I felt a pull.

A physical pull.

My chest.

My heart.

It was being dragged.

It was being pulled out.

I gasped.

I tried to breathe.

I could not.

The air was gone.

The room was gone.

The light was all there was.

I saw myself.

I saw my hands.

They were empty.

I had given the bone.

I had given my silence.

I had given my conscience.

I was free.

I was empty.

The light faded.

The room returned.

The chandelier was different.

It was larger.

It was heavier.

It hung lower.

The teeth were longer.

They reached down.

They almost touched the floor.

The director stood there. He was smiling.

"Acceptable," he said.

He looked at the woman. She was still on the floor. She was unconscious.

"Remove her," he said.

Two men entered. They carried her out.

The door closed.

The room was empty.

Except for us.

And the chandelier.

Margaret stood by the bowl.

The bowl was empty.

She turned to me.

"Ready for next time?" she asked.

I looked at her.

I looked at the chandelier.

The teeth gleamed.

They were waiting.

I felt a pain in my chest.

It was a small pain.

It was a hollow pain.

It was the shape of a bone.

I nodded.

"Yes," I said.

I was free.

I was trapped.

I was alive.

I was dead.

The chandelier spun.

The light pulsed.

The room was quiet.

I waited.

I always waited.

The teeth bit into the air.

The teeth bit into me.

I did not flinch.

I did not look away.

I was part of it.

I was the ritual.

The gold was not in the bowl.

The gold was in the giving.

The gold was in the loss.

I touched my chest.

I felt nothing.

I was clean.

I was empty.

I was free.