The dream is not a place. It is a weight. You carry it in the hollow of your throat, a stone of cold iron that has been heated in a kiln. You are in the house. The house is yours, or perhaps it was always yours, but the air tastes of someone else’s breath. The walls breathe. They expand and contract with a slow, rhythmic heave, like the lungs of a sleeping beast. You stand in the center of the parlor. The floorboards creak under the weight of your silence.

This is the year of the turning. You have crossed the sea. You have crossed the border of your own skin. You are no longer the boy who left. You are the man who arrived. But the man who arrived does not fit. He is too large for the room. He is too loud for the quiet streets. The neighbors look at you with eyes that are flat and gray, like stones in a dry riverbed. They do not hate you. Hatred is too hot a fire for them. They simply do not see you. You are a ghost in their living room, a stain on their clean linens.

There is a man who sees you. His name is Elias. He is old. His face is a map of wrinkles, deep and dark, like the furrows of a field after a hard rain. He lives in the house next to yours. He does not speak much. He watches you from his window. He is the only one who acknowledges the air you displace. He is your mentor, though he does not teach you with words. He teaches you with his silence. He teaches you that to be seen is to be marked.

One night, the dream becomes real. The air in your parlor thickens. It turns to gel. You cannot move. Your legs are fused to the floor. Your arms are pinned to your sides. You look down. Your hands are changing. The skin is peeling away, not in bloody strips, but in flakes of gray ash. Under the ash, there is no flesh. There is only wood. You are becoming a tree. You are becoming part of the house.

This is the first turning. The recognition. You realize that you are not being punished. You are being absorbed. The house is hungry. It has been waiting for you. It has been waiting for a soul that is heavy enough to anchor it. Your exile is not a banishment. It is an invitation. The prejudice of the neighbors is not a barrier. It is a membrane. It keeps the house safe. It keeps the hunger contained.

You try to scream. But your mouth is full of dust. You try to weep. But your eyes are dry. You are becoming still. You are becoming quiet. You are becoming one with the wallpaper. The pattern of the paper is a vine, a dark and twisting vine that climbs the wall. You feel the vine inside you. You feel it in your veins. It is the root system of your new life.

Elias comes to the door. He does not knock. He simply opens it. The hinges do not squeak. He steps inside. He looks at you. He does not look with fear. He looks with pity. Or perhaps it is recognition. He knows what is happening. He has seen it before. He has seen it in his own house, in his own bones.

He sits in the chair across from you. The chair creaks. He folds his hands in his lap. He waits. He does not try to save you. Saving you would be a kindness. And kindness is a poison in this place. Kindness breaks the spell. And the spell is the only thing that holds the world together.

You look at him. You want to tell him to run. You want to tell him that the house is eating you. You want to tell him that you are sorry. But you cannot speak. You are becoming the wood. You are becoming the wall. You are becoming the threshold.

The dream continues. The house grows. It spreads out over the street. It swallows the neighbor’s house. It swallows the road. It swallows the sky. The world shrinks to the size of a room. And in that room, there is only you and Elias. And the wood.

This is the second turning. The release. You stop fighting. You let the wood grow. You let the roots take hold. You let the leaves unfurl in the corners of the ceiling. You realize that you are not dying. You are becoming. You are becoming the house. And the house is good. The house is safe. The house is eternal.

The neighbors are gone. They have been swallowed. Their houses have merged with yours. Their memories have merged with your wood. You can feel them. They are in the grain. They are in the knots. They are in the silence. They are no longer separate. They are part of you. And you are part of them.

Elias stands up. He walks to the window. He looks out. There is nothing outside. There is only the dark. And the dark is moving. It is breathing. It is the house. It is you.

He turns back to you. He smiles. It is a sad smile. It is a smile of farewell. He knows he must leave. Or perhaps he cannot leave. Perhaps he is already part of it. He looks at his hands. They are turning to wood. He looks at his feet. They are fusing to the floor. He is becoming part of the house. He is becoming part of you.

You are friends. You are more than friends. You are one. You are the structure. You are the support. You are the threshold between the world and the void. You are the door that does not open. You are the lock that does not turn.

The dream ends. Or perhaps it does not end. Perhaps it has no end. You are awake. You are in the parlor. The sun is shining through the window. The light is bright. It is harsh. It is real.

You look at your hands. They are human. They are flesh. They are blood. They are trembling.

You look at the wall. It is wallpaper. It is paper. It is paint.

You look at the door. It is wood. It is iron. It is a boundary.

You walk to the door. You open it. The street is there. The cars are there. The people are there. They are walking. They are talking. They are living. They do not know what you have been. They do not know what you have become. They do not know that you are the house.

You step outside. The air hits your face. It is cold. It is wet. It is alive.

You look back at the house. It is standing. It is solid. It is quiet.

You turn away. You walk into the crowd. You are one of them. You are no one. You are everyone. You are the threshold.

The tragedy is not that you were consumed. The tragedy is that you were released. The tragedy is that you are still you. The tragedy is that you must live in a world that is not a dream. The tragedy is that the wood is gone. The tragedy is that the silence is gone. The tragedy is that you are loud.

You walk home. You enter the house. You close the door. You lock it.

You sit in the chair. You wait.

The walls do not breathe. The floor does not creak. The air does not thicken.

But you feel it. You feel the weight. You feel the stone in your throat. You feel the vine in your veins.

You are the threshold. You are the door. You are the lock.

You are the house.

You are the exile.

You are the one who came back.

You are the one who never left.

The sun sets. The shadows lengthen. The dark comes.

You wait.

You are patient.

You are still.

You are the wood.

You are the silence.

You are the end.