The mirror is broken. That is the first thing you know. The glass lies in shards on the floor of the guardroom, a scattered constellation of silver and black. You do not remember dropping it. Your hands are shaking. They are always shaking now. The cold bites at your knuckles. The wood of the desk is slick. You wipe your hands on your tunic. The wool is coarse. It scratches. It reminds you of the wall.

"Look at that," says Miller. He is leaning against the doorframe. His arms are crossed. He looks tired. His eyes are red-rimmed. "Another one, eh? Your luck."

You do not answer. You look at the shards. One piece is jagged. It catches the light from the single lantern. It glints. It looks like a tear. You want to pick it up. You want to see your face. But you do not. You know what you will see. You have seen it a thousand times.

"Quiet," you say. Your voice is low. It is a growl. You keep it low. You must keep it low.

Miller smirks. It is a small, cruel smile. "Yes, sir. Quiet." He spits the word. He steps into the room. He steps over the glass. His boot crunches. The sound is loud. It is too loud. It fills the small space. It fills your head.

"You’re up next," he says. He points a finger at you. The finger is long. It is pale. "The Warden wants to see you. Now."

"Why?" you ask.

"Because you’re the problem," Miller says. "Because you’re strange. Because you don’t eat. Because you don’t sleep. Because you stare at the walls."

"I don’t stare at the walls," you say.

"You do," Miller says. "I’ve seen you. You’re like a ghost. A ghost in a uniform." He laughs. It is a dry sound. Like dead leaves scraping on pavement. "They say you’re mad. They say you heard things. Things that aren’t there."

You stand up. Your knees pop. You are stiff. You are old. You are not old. You are twenty-five. But you feel old. You feel hollow. You feel like the mirror. Cracked. Broken.

"I heard nothing," you say.

"Then why did you stop the train?" Miller asks. He steps closer. He is blocking the light. His shadow falls on the shards. "Why did you jump onto the tracks? Why did you scream at the driver? There was no one there, Tom. No one."

You look at Miller. You look into his eyes. You want to trust him. You want to believe him. But you cannot. You saw the face. You saw the child. You saw the shadow.

"There was a child," you say.

Miller shakes his head. He shakes it slowly. He is pitying you. The pity is worse than the anger. The anger is hot. The pity is cold. The cold burns.

"There was no child," Miller says. "There was only the wind. And your mind. Your broken mind."

You walk past him. You walk out of the guardroom. The hallway is long. It is dark. The stone is wet. It smells of mold. It smells of fear. You walk fast. Your boots slap against the floor. The sound echoes. It bounces off the walls. It follows you.

You reach the Warden’s office. The door is closed. It is heavy oak. It is banded with iron. You knock. Three times. Hard.

"Enter," a voice says. It is deep. It is calm. It is the voice of authority.

You open the door. You step inside. The room is warm. There is a fire in the hearth. The flames dance. They are orange. They are yellow. They are alive. The Warden sits behind the desk. He is a large man. He is bald. He has a face like a stone. He is reading a file. The file is thick. It is yours.

"Sit," he says. He does not look up.

You sit. The chair is hard. You do not move. You do not breathe. You wait.

The Warden closes the file. He looks at you. His eyes are gray. They are flat. They see through you.

"Tom," he says.

"Sir."

"Tell me what you saw."

You open your mouth. You want to speak. But the words are stuck. They are stones in your throat.

"I saw a child," you say. Finally.

The Warden sighs. It is a long sigh. It is the sigh of a man who is tired of the same story. He leans back in his chair. He crosses his arms.

"Again," he says. "A child. On the tracks. At midnight. In the snow."

"Yes," you say.

"And you stopped the train," he says. It is not a question.

"Yes."

"And the child?" he asks.

"Gone," you say. "Vanished. Like smoke."

The Warden nods. He picks up a pen. He uncaps it. He makes a mark in the file. A small black dot. It looks like a period. It ends a sentence.

"Tom," he says. "You are a good soldier. You are a brave man. But you are not well."

"I am well," you say.

"You are not," he says. "You have been hearing voices for weeks. You have been seeing things that are not there. This is not bravery. This is madness. And madness has no place in the guard."

"You don’t understand," you say. Your voice rises. It is a shout. It is a cry. "I saw her. I saw the girl. She was blue. She was cold. She was looking at me. She knew me."

The Warden slams his hand on the desk. The pen skids. The file falls. Pages scatter on the floor.

"Enough!" he roars. The fire in the hearth seems to jump. The shadows in the room lengthen. "You are dismissed. You are suspended. You will go to the infirmary. You will be treated. You will forget this."

"Forgotten?" you ask. "I cannot forget."

"You must," he says. "For your own good. And for the town’s good. We need order. We need sanity. We do not need your ghosts."

You stand up. You look at the Warden. You look at Miller, who is standing in the doorway. You look at the scattered pages. You look at the broken mirror, which you have brought with you. The shards are in your hand. They are in your pocket. You took them from the guardroom. You carried them here.

You pull out a shard. It is small. It is sharp. You hold it up. The light from the fire catches it. It glows. It shines. It is beautiful.

"This," you say. "This is the truth."

The Warden stands up. He is angry. He is afraid. He sees the shard. He sees your face. He sees the madness in your eyes.

"Put that down," he says. His voice is thin. It is weak.

"No," you say.

"Tom, listen to me. You are hurting yourself. You are hurting us. Let it go."

"Let it go?" you say. You laugh. It is a sad laugh. It is a broken laugh. "I have let it go. I have let it go for years. But it is not gone. It is here." You touch your chest. You touch your heart. "It is in me."

Miller steps forward. He reaches for you. "Tom, don’t."

You step back. You back into the corner. The wall is cold. It presses against your back. You are trapped. You are a cornered animal. You are a beast.

They move toward you. The Warden and Miller. They are coming. They are bringing their order. They are bringing their silence. They are bringing their forgetting.

You close your eyes. You remember the snow. You remember the child. You remember the cold. You remember the fear. You remember the love. It is a primal love. It is a love for the lost. It is a love for the dead. It is a love that does not make sense. It is a love that is dangerous.

You open your eyes. You raise the shard. You do not look at them. You look at the fire. You look at the light.

"I am sorry," you say.

You do not strike them. You do not fight. You do not kill. You simply hold the shard. You hold it up. You let the light pass through it. The light refracts. It splits. It becomes a rainbow. It paints the wall. It paints the air. It paints your face.

You see yourself in the glass. You see your face. It is not a monster. It is a man. It is a broken man. It is a man who loves. It is a man who sees.

The Warden stops. Miller stops. They stare. They stare at the light. They stare at you. They are confused. They are afraid. They do not understand. They cannot understand.

You lower the shard. You drop it. It hits the floor. It clatters. It is small. It is insignificant.

You walk out of the room. You walk past them. You walk into the hallway. You walk into the dark.

You do not look back.

You walk to the gate. The gate is open. The wind blows. It is cold. It is clean. It is free.

You step outside. You step into the snow. The snow is white. It is soft. It covers everything. It covers the tracks. It covers the tracks where the child was. It covers the truth. It covers the lie.

You walk away. You walk into the night. You walk into the legend. You are the legend. You are the ghost. You are the truth.

And the mirror is broken. And you are whole.