The room was small. The air was thick. I sat on the edge of the bed. My hands were still.

The wallpaper peeled. It curled like a dry leaf. I watched it fall. It landed on the floor. A grey square.

My name is Elara. I am alone here. The clock ticks. Tick. Tick. Tick. It sounds like a hammer. It sounds like a bone breaking. I do not look at the door. I do not want to see who opens it. I do not want to see my mother.

She is in the garden. She is digging. The soil is black. It is wet. It smells of rot. It smells of life. I can hear the spade hitting the earth. Thud. Thud. Thud. A rhythm. A heartbeat. Not mine.

I remember the root. It was in the garden. A white root. It was long. It was thin. It looked like a vein. It looked like a finger. I found it last week. I pulled it from the dirt. It snapped. It broke in two.

I kept the pieces. I put them in a jar. The jar is on the table. I look at it. The root is dry now. It is brittle. It is dead.

My mother calls out. "Elara?" Her voice is soft. It is like smoke. "Are you in there?"

I do not answer. I cannot. My throat is tight. My chest is full of stone.

"Elara, open the door."

No.

"Please."

I close my eyes. I see the root. I see it whole. I remember holding it. It was warm. It was pulsing. I thought it was alive. I thought it was part of me.

I was wrong.

The door handle turns. It clicks. It clicks again. The wood groans. I stay still. I am still. I am a statue. I am a stone.

The door opens.

My mother stands there. She wears a grey dress. Her hair is pulled back. Her face is pale. Her eyes are red. She holds a spade. The blade is dark. It is stained with mud.

She looks at me. She does not smile. She does not frown. She looks at me with a calm that frightens me. It is a cold calm. It is a deep calm.

"Close the door," she says.

I do not move.

"Elara."

I close my eyes.

She walks in. The door shuts behind her. The lock clicks. I hear the key turn. I am locked in.

She stands by the table. She looks at the jar. She looks at the broken root.

"What is that?" she asks.

I open my eyes. "It was here."

"Was?"

"It is here."

She reaches out. Her hand is steady. She takes the jar. She turns it over. She pours the pieces into her palm. They are small. They are white. They are dust.

"You broke it," she says.

I shake my head. "It was already broken."

"No." She looks at me. Her voice is low. "You broke it. You pulled too hard."

I feel a sting. It is in my chest. It is in my throat. "I didn't mean to."

"I know."

She puts the jar down. She picks up the spade. She leans against the wall. The wood creaks.

"Why did you do that?" she asks.

"I didn't know."

"You knew."

I look at her. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to run. I can do nothing. I am trapped. I am small.

"I felt it," I say. "I felt it move."

She laughs. It is a short sound. It is dry. It is like a twig snapping.

"Nothing moves, Elara. Not in this house. Not in this ground."

"I saw it."

"You saw a root. It is dead. It is old. It is nothing."

I look at the floor. The grey square of wallpaper is still there. It looks like a scar.

"I thought it was part of me," I whisper.

My mother stops. She looks at me. Her face changes. The calm cracks. It is a thin crack. It is a hairline fracture.

"What?" she asks.

"I thought it was part of me. I thought if I broke it, I would break too."

She is silent. The silence is heavy. It presses on me. It presses on the air.

"Sit down," she says.

I sit. The bed is hard. The springs are cold.

She sits on the chair opposite me. The chair squeaks.

"Listen to me," she says.

I listen.

"We are not one thing. We are separate. You are you. I am me. The house is the house. The root is the root. They do not bleed when you cut them. They do not feel."

"But I felt it."

"Did you?"

I look at my hands. They are shaking. I look at the floor.

"I thought I did."

She nods. Slowly. She picks up the jar. She holds it up to the light. The light is dim. It comes from the window. It is grey.

"Look at it," she says.

I look. The root is gone. There is only dust. There is only air.

"It is gone," she says.

"It is still here," I say.

"No. It is in the ground. It is in the dirt. It is part of the earth. It is not part of you."

I want to argue. I want to say that I felt the pulse. I want to say that I heard the whisper. But I cannot. The words are stuck. They are like stones in my throat.

"Why did you lock the door?" I ask.

Her eyes are hard. They are dark.

"Because you are not safe," she says.

"Safe?"

"From yourself. From your head. From this... this sickness."

I feel a chill. It runs down my spine. It is cold. It is sharp.

"I am not sick."

"You are. You are listening to things that are not there. You are seeing things that are not there. You are breaking things because you think they are alive. That is not love, Elara. That is fear."

I look at the spade. The blade is black. It is wet.

"Did you kill it?" I ask.

She looks at me. Her face is blank.

"Who?"

"The root."

"The root is dead. It has been dead for years. I dug it up to clear the garden. I threw it away."

I feel a lurch. It is in my stomach. It is in my head.

"You threw it away?"

"Yes. Before you found it. Before you took it. I put it in the bin. I took the bin to the road."

I look at her. I do not believe her. I want to believe her. I want to be wrong. I want to be free.

"If you threw it away," I say, "then what am I looking at?"

She holds up the jar. She turns it. The dust swirls.

"Nothing," she says. "You are looking at nothing. You are looking at your own fear. You are looking at your own need to be connected to something that is not you."

I want to stand up. I want to throw the jar. I want to break the glass. I want to break her. But I cannot move. I am frozen. I am trapped in the moment.

"Why do you hate me?" I ask.

She blinks. "Hate you?"

"You keep me here. You lock me in. You tell me I am sick. You tell me I am wrong. You take my things. You break my things."

"I am protecting you," she says.

"From what?"

"From yourself. From the dark. From the lies your mind tells you."

I look at the window. The glass is dirty. I can see my reflection. It is faint. It is ghostly. I look like a stranger. I look like a ghost.

"I am not a ghost," I say.

"No. You are a girl. You are a daughter. You are a human being. You are not a root. You are not the earth. You are not the air."

I feel the weight of her words. They are heavy. They are solid. They are real.

"And if I am not those things?" I ask.

"Then you are you," she says. "And that is enough."

I look at the jar. The dust settles. It is still. It is quiet.

"I am afraid," I say.

"I know."

"I am alone."

"No. You are here. I am here. We are together."

I look at her. I look at her face. I look for the lie. I look for the trick. I look for the crack.

But there is no crack. There is only her. She is real. She is solid. She is here.

I reach out. I take the jar. I hold it. It is cold. It is empty.

I walk to the window. I open it. The air rushes in. It is cold. It is fresh. It smells of rain. It smells of earth.

I look at the garden. The soil is black. It is wet. It is quiet.

I hold the jar. I look at the dust.

I pour it out.

The dust falls. It drifts down. It lands on the sill. It lands on the glass.

I watch it fall. I watch it settle.

It is gone.

I close the window. I turn to my mother. She is watching me. Her eyes are wet.

"It is done," I say.

She nods. She walks to the door. She opens it. The light floods in. It is bright. It is harsh.

"Come," she says.

I stand up. My legs are weak. My head is light.

I walk toward the door. I walk toward the light. I walk away from the room. I walk away from the bed. I walk away from the spade.

I walk away from the root.

I am not the root. I am not the earth. I am not the air.

I am Elara.

I step into the hallway. The floor is cold. The walls are white. The light is bright.

My mother holds the door. She does not let go. She holds me. She holds me tight.

I lean into her. I feel her warmth. I feel her heartbeat. It is strong. It is steady. It is real.

I close my eyes. I listen. I listen to her. I listen to the house. I listen to the silence.

It is not empty. It is full. It is full of life. It is full of air. It is full of us.

I am not alone. I am not broken. I am not a root.

I am here.

I am here.