I wake in the dark. The dream is still wet on my lips. It tastes of iron and old stone. I am nine years old. I am not nine years old. I look at my hands. They are thin. The veins are blue ropes under the skin. I am young. I am old. The confusion is a physical weight. It sits on my chest. It presses the air from my lungs. I am in a city that does not exist. Or perhaps it does. I cannot tell. The streets are narrow. They are paved with cobblestones that bite at the heels. The architecture is medieval. The buildings lean against each other like tired old men sharing a secret. The sky is gray. It is always gray. The light is thin. It is like water. It soaks into the walls.

I am running. I do not know why. My feet are bare. The stone is cold. It burns. I run past a church. The spire is broken. It juts into the sky like a broken tooth. I run past a market. The stalls are empty. The cloth is rotted. There is no one. There is only the wind. It howls through the alleys. It sounds like a woman weeping. It sounds like a child crying. I know the voice. It is my voice. I stop. I breathe. The air is sharp. It cuts my throat. I look up. There is a temple. It is far away. It is at the end of the city. It is white. It is bright. It is the only thing that is not gray. It is the only thing that is not dead.

I know what it is. I have always known. It is the place where I was betrayed. It is the place where I broke. I remember the shards. They are in my pocket. I touch them. They are cold. They are sharp. They are pieces of a mirror. No. They are pieces of a heart. I do not know which is which. The distinction has blurred. Time has eroded it. I am a child who has lived too long. I am an old man who never grew up. The pressure is immense. It is the weight of hours. It is the weight of days. It is the weight of years. It crushes me. I accept it. I have always accepted it. I am the vessel. I am the clay. I am the pot that is fired in the kiln. I am the thing that is broken to make the wheel turn.

I walk toward the temple. My steps are slow. They are heavy. The ground is soft. It is like mud. It is like flesh. I feel the city breathing around me. It is alive. It is hungry. It wants me. It wants to consume me. I am not afraid. Fear is a luxury. I do not have it. I have only duty. I have only love. Love for a man who is gone. Love for a man who left me. Love for a man who chose the temple over me. The instinct is strong. It is primal. It is the hunger of a wolf. It is the thirst of a desert. It is the drive to survive. But survival is not the point. Sacrifice is the point. I must give. I must bleed. I must break.

I reach the gate. It is made of wood. It is black. It is ancient. The wood is rotting. But it holds. I push it open. It groans. It screams. The sound is loud. It echoes. It vibrates in my bones. I step inside. The courtyard is empty. There is a well in the center. The water is black. It is still. It reflects the sky. It reflects the broken spire. I look into the water. I see my face. It is not my face. It is a mask. It is a lie. The truth is delayed. It is hidden. It is buried under layers of time. I must dig. I must unearth it. I must find the core.

I walk to the center of the courtyard. The ground is hard here. It is stone. It is cold. I sit down. I take the shards from my pocket. They are warm now. They have absorbed my body heat. They are alive. I hold them. I feel the edges. They cut my fingers. Blood beads on the skin. It is red. It is bright. It is the only color in the world. I look at the blood. I look at the shards. I see the connection. I see the mirror. I am the mirror. I am the thing that reflects. I am the thing that breaks. The realization hits me. It is a blow. It is a wave. It washes over me. It drowns me. I am not the victim. I am the perpetrator. I broke the temple. I broke the man. I broke myself. I did it to save him. I did it to save us. I was wrong. I was right. There is no difference.

The man appears. He is standing by the well. He is tall. He is thin. He is wearing a black coat. It is long. It is heavy. It is like a shroud. He is looking at me. His eyes are empty. They are dark. They are deep. They are like wells. I look into them. I see nothing. I see everything. I see the years. I see the loss. I see the silence. He does not speak. He does not need to. Words are useless. Words are water. They pass through you. They leave no mark. He knows. He has always known. He is the traitor. He is the helper. He is the enemy. He is the ally. He is the lover. He is the ghost.

I stand up. My legs are stiff. My knees crack. I walk toward him. He does not move. He does not flinch. He is still. He is stone. He is part of the temple. I reach out. I take his hand. It is cold. It is dead. I hold it. I squeeze it. I feel the bones. I feel the emptiness. I pour my blood into his palm. The red spreads. It stains his skin. It stains the stone. It stains the air. The temple shakes. It rattles. The walls crack. The roof groans. The spire falls. It crashes down. It breaks. It shatters. The sound is deafening. It is a thunderclap. It is a scream. It is a song.

The temple is gone. It is dust. It is rubble. It is ash. I am standing in the ruins. I am alone. The man is gone. He is part of the dust. He is part of the ash. He is part of the silence. I am alone. I am free. I am broken. I am whole. The shards are gone. They are in the ground. They are in the earth. They are in the roots. They are in the blood of the city. The city is changing. The gray is fading. The light is coming. It is not gray. It is gold. It is warm. It is soft. It is life.

I look at my hands. They are clean. They are smooth. They are young. I am not nine years old. I am not old. I am here. I am now. The dream is over. The wake is real. I am in my bed. The sheets are white. They are cool. The room is dark. The clock is ticking. It is loud. It is slow. It is steady. I close my eyes. I feel the pain. It is there. It is in my chest. It is in my hands. It is in my soul. But it is soft. It is manageable. It is mine. I accepted it. I embraced it. I sacrificed it. I was saved.

The irony is bitter. It is sweet. It is both. I thought I was the one who was broken. I thought I was the one who was lost. I was the one who was found. I was the one who was whole. The sacrifice was not a loss. It was a gain. It was a gift. It was a love. The love was primal. It was beyond reason. It was the drive to exist. It was the drive to endure. It was the drive to break. To break is to live. To break is to heal. To break is to become.

I open my eyes. The light is on the wall. It is thin. It is like water. It is like time. It is like truth. I am not the temple. I am the keeper. I am the guard. I am the stone. I am the dust. I am the wind. I am the silence. I am the space between the notes. I am the breath between the words. I am the pause. I am the rest. I am the silence that speaks. I am the void that fills. I am the nothing that is everything.

The city sleeps. The city breathes. The city dreams. I am part of it. I am part of the dream. I am part of the waking. I am part of the break. I am part of the whole. The shards are in the ground. They are growing. They are becoming roots. They are becoming branches. They are becoming leaves. They are becoming flowers. They are becoming light. The temple is gone. The temple is everywhere. The temple is in me. The temple is in you. The temple is in the air. The temple is in the time. The temple is in the space. The temple is in the silence. The temple is in the sound. The temple is in the heart. The temple is in the blood. The temple is in the bone. The temple is in the soul.

I sleep. I do not dream. I wake. I am alive. I am here. I am now. The pain is soft. The love is strong. The time is slow. The light is gold. The end is the beginning. The break is the whole. The loss is the gain. The sacrifice is the redemption. The betrayal is the truth. The traitor is the savior. The child is the old man. The old man is the child. The cycle turns. The wheel spins. The stone breaks. The water flows. The light rises. The dark falls. The silence speaks. The sound rests. The breath flows. The life continues. The story ends. The story begins. The story is the same. The story is different. The story is true. The story is false. The story is real. The story is dream. The story is you. The story is me. The story is us. The story is the temple. The temple is the story. The story is the end. The end is the beginning. The beginning is the end. The end is the truth. The truth is the light. The light is the love. The love is the sacrifice. The sacrifice is the redemption. The redemption is the peace. The peace is the silence. The silence is the end.