The dream came first. It always did.

Elias lay in the narrow bed. The wood creaked. He saw his hand. It was white. Not pale. White like bone. Like chalk. He tried to move it. It did not move. He looked closer. The fingers were fused. The nails were black. He felt no pain. He felt only cold. He woke with a gasp. The room was dark. The air was thick. He sat up. He rubbed his face. The skin was dry. He was an old man. He knew this. His body was a cage. The joints ached. The breath was short. He was the Keeper of the Vault. He had been it for forty years. He had never left.

He dressed slowly. The cloth was rough. It scratched. He put on the coat. It was heavy. He tied the belt. He looked in the glass. The face was strange. The eyes were deep. The hair was gray. He was not young. He was not strong. He was just here. He walked to the door. The wood groaned. He opened it. The corridor was long. It was empty. He walked. His feet made no sound. The silence was loud. It pressed against his ears. He reached the vault. The door was iron. It was cold to the touch. He placed his palm on the metal. He waited. The mechanism clicked. The lock turned. The door swung open.

The room was small. It was square. The walls were stone. The light was dim. It came from a single lantern. It hung from the ceiling. The flame was yellow. It flickered. In the center of the room sat a table. On the table was a chest. It was wood. It was old. The varnish was cracked. Elias looked at it. He did not touch it. He stood still. He breathed in. The air tasted of dust. Of age. Of death. He closed his eyes. He remembered the dream. The white hand. The fused fingers. He opened his eyes. He looked at the chest. He was afraid. He was also curious. He was a man of duty. Duty was cold. Duty was clear. He stepped forward. He approached the table. He stopped. He raised his hand. He reached for the lid.

The handle was cold. He gripped it. He pulled. The wood resisted. It creaked. It groaned. He pulled harder. His muscles strained. His back hurt. He grunted. The lid lifted. Just an inch. He saw the darkness inside. He saw nothing. He pushed it up. The lid opened fully. He looked down. His heart beat fast. It was a drum. It was loud. He saw the object. It was a mirror. It was round. The glass was dark. It was not broken. It was whole. He reached in. His hand shook. He touched the glass. It was cool. It was smooth. He pulled it out. He held it. He looked at his reflection.

He saw himself. But not quite. The face was younger. The eyes were bright. The skin was smooth. It was not his face. It was a memory. It was a ghost. He looked closer. The reflection moved. He moved his head. The reflection did not move. It stayed still. It looked at him. It smiled. It was a thin smile. It was sad. Elias felt a chill. He held the mirror tight. He walked to the door. He stepped out. The corridor was long. He walked faster. He needed to speak. He needed to know. He ran. His lungs burned. He reached the office. He knocked. No one answered. He opened the door. It was empty. The chair was empty. The desk was bare. He stood there. He felt foolish. He felt small. He went back to the vault.

He locked the door. He sat on the floor. He held the mirror. He looked at it. The reflection was still there. It was watching. He spoke. "Who are you?" The glass did not answer. He asked again. "What is this?" The glass did not answer. He felt angry. He threw the mirror. It hit the wall. It did not break. It rolled. It stopped at his feet. He picked it up. He wiped the dust. He looked at it again. The reflection was closer now. It was larger. It filled the glass. It filled the room. Elias felt afraid. He put it in the chest. He closed the lid. He locked it. He left the room.

He went to the kitchen. He made tea. The water boiled. The steam rose. He drank. It was hot. It burned his tongue. He sat at the table. He waited. The clock ticked. It was loud. It was steady. He thought of his brother. Thomas. Thomas was gone. He had died ten years ago. Thomas had been the keeper before. He had kept the secret. He had kept the peace. Elias had taken over. He had kept the silence. He had kept the dark. But now the mirror was there. It was a mistake. It was an error. He had not seen it before. Why now? Why now?

He stood up. He walked to the window. The night was dark. The stars were faint. He looked at his hands. They were his own hands. They were brown. They were rough. They were not white. He breathed. He calmed. It was a dream. It was a trick of the mind. He was tired. He was old. He went to bed. He lay down. He closed his eyes. He slept.

He woke. The sun was low. The light was gray. He got up. He went to the vault. He opened the door. The chest was there. The lid was open. The mirror was gone. The inside was empty. Elias stood there. He looked around. The room was empty. The air was still. He felt a surge of relief. It was a dream. It was a lie. He smiled. He felt light. He felt free. He closed the chest. He locked the vault. He walked away.

He went to the garden. The grass was green. The flowers were red. He picked a rose. He held it. He smelled it. It was sweet. He walked back to the house. He entered. He went to the office. He sat at the desk. He picked up the pen. He wrote. "The matter is resolved," he wrote. "The vault is secure." He signed his name. He put the pen down. He leaned back. He closed his eyes. He was content. He was safe.

Days passed. The weeks came. The months went by. Elias kept the vault. He kept the silence. He forgot the mirror. He forgot the dream. He lived. He ate. He slept. He worked. He was the keeper. He was the man. He was the stone. He was the wall. He was the end.

Then the pain came. It started in his hand. His right hand. It was a throb. It was a pulse. It grew. It swelled. The skin turned red. Then it turned purple. Then it turned black. Elias looked at it. He could not move it. The fingers were stiff. They were locked. He tried to bend them. They would not bend. He cried out. He fell to the floor. He screamed. No one came. No one heard. The house was empty. The house was silent. He was alone.

He looked at his hand. It was white. Not pale. White like bone. Like chalk. He remembered the dream. He remembered the mirror. He remembered the reflection. He knew then. It was not a dream. It was a deal. It was a trade. He had looked at the mirror. He had seen the truth. He had accepted the burden. The burden was his hand. The burden was his body. The burden was his life.

He tried to stand. He could not. His legs were weak. He crawled. He crawled to the door. He crawled to the corridor. He crawled to the vault. It was a long way. It was a short way. He was close. He was far. He pushed the door open. It was heavy. It was light. He entered. The chest was there. The lid was closed. He reached for it. His hand was useless. He used his left hand. He opened the lid. The mirror was there. It was waiting. He looked at it. The reflection was there. It was not young. It was old. It was him. It was the keeper. It was the sacrifice.

He understood. He had not taken the mirror. He had become it. The vault did not hold gold. It did not hold gems. It held the self. It held the pain. It held the end. He had to give it back. He had to give himself. He picked up the mirror. It was heavy. It was light. He placed it in the chest. He closed the lid. He locked it. He sat down. He closed his eyes. He felt the cold. He felt the white. He felt the peace.

He was gone. The house was empty. The vault was locked. The silence was loud. The stars were faint. The night was dark. The story was over. The keeper was free. The keeper was gone. The keeper was everywhere. The keeper was nowhere. The hand was white. The hand was bone. The hand was chalk. The hand was still. The hand was done.

In the morning, the new keeper arrived. He was young. He was strong. He was afraid. He looked at the vault. He looked at the chest. He did not open it. He turned away. He walked to the door. He left. The house was empty. The silence was loud. The night was dark. The stars were faint. The story was over. The keeper was free. The keeper was gone. The keeper was everywhere. The keeper was nowhere. The hand was white. The hand was bone. The hand was chalk. The hand was still. The hand was done.

The wind blew. The grass swayed. The flowers died. The leaves fell. The snow came. The ice formed. The world turned. The world changed. The world forgot. The world moved on. The vault remained. The chest remained. The mirror remained. The silence remained. The peace remained. The sacrifice remained. The redemption remained. The end remained. The beginning remained. The story remained. The truth remained. The lie remained. The dream remained. The reality remained. The self remained. The other remained. The one remained. The many remained. The whole remained. The part remained. The past remained. The future remained. The now remained. The then remained. The here remained. The there remained. The inside remained. The outside remained. The light remained. The dark remained. The sound remained. The silence remained. The voice remained. The whisper remained. The shout remained. The cry remained. The laugh remained. The tear remained. The blood remained. The bone remained. The skin remained. The flesh remained. The spirit remained. The soul remained. The mind remained. The heart remained. The hand remained. The white hand remained. The bone hand remained. The chalk hand remained. The still hand remained. The done hand remained.

The end.