You leave the door open.

The wind finds the gap. It slips under the frame like a cold finger. It touches your ankle. You do not close it. You know why you do not close it.

The room is small. It is square. The walls are stone. The stone is old. It is dark. The only light comes from the window. The glass is dirty. It is thick. It is cracked. One crack runs down the center. It looks like a vein. It looks like a wound.

You sit in the chair. The chair is wood. The wood is hard. The wood is worn. The seat is smooth. The back is smooth. The arms are smooth. You have touched them for years. You have rubbed them for years. They are soft now. They are your shape. They are your skin.

The object is on the table. It is a bowl. It is ceramic. It is white. It is chipped. The chip is on the rim. It is small. It is jagged. It is permanent. You bought it in a market. You remember the market. The smell of rot. The sound of haggling. The heat. The dust. You are not in the market anymore. You are here. You are alone.

The bowl is empty. It has been empty for three days. It was full before. It held soup. It held stew. It held water. It held nothing now. It is just a bowl. It is just a piece of clay. It is dead.

You look at it. You know it is dead. You know it is broken. You know it is finished. You still look at it.

The wind blows again. The curtain moves. The curtain is heavy. It is blue. The blue is faded. The blue is dull. It looks like a bruise.

You hear a knock.

It is soft. It is rhythmic. It is three taps. Then a pause. Then two taps. You know the rhythm. You have known the rhythm for ten years. You know who is there.

You do not move. You do not breathe. Your heart is a drum. It is loud. It is fast. It is inside your chest. It is against your ribs. It is a cage.

The knocking stops.

Silence returns. The silence is thick. It is heavy. It is wet. It sits on your chest. It presses on your lungs. You cannot breathe. You cannot think. You can only wait.

You wait for an hour. You wait for two hours. The light changes. The sun moves. The shadow on the floor moves. The shadow gets longer. The shadow gets darker. The room gets colder.

You are cold. Your fingers are cold. Your toes are cold. Your nose is cold. You are freezing. You do not move. You are frozen. You are a statue. You are a ghost.

Then the door opens.

It is not the wind. It is a hand. It is a pale hand. It is a thin hand. The hand pushes the door. The door creaks. The creak is sharp. The creak is painful.

A figure enters. It is tall. It is thin. It is wrapped in a cloak. The cloak is black. The black is deep. The black is absolute. It swallows the light.

The figure stops. It stands in the doorway. It looks at you. You look at it. You know its face. You know its eyes. You know its mouth. You know its smile.

It is you.

It is not you.

It is a mirror.

It is a lie.

You shake your head. You shake it hard. The hair falls in your face. You push it back. You look again.

The figure is a man. He is old. He is gaunt. His face is a map of lines. The lines are deep. The lines are dark. His eyes are bright. The bright is cold. The bright is sharp. The bright is a knife.

He walks in. He walks slowly. He walks carefully. His feet make no sound. He is a shadow. He is a whisper. He is a memory.

He stops by the table. He looks at the bowl. He touches the rim. His finger traces the chip. He smiles. The smile is small. The smile is sad. The smile is cruel.

"You kept it," he says.

His voice is low. The voice is rough. The voice is like sand. The voice is like stone.

"I kept it," you say.

Your voice is weak. Your voice is thin. Your voice is a thread. The thread is about to break.

"You should have thrown it out," he says.

"I could not," you say.

"You are weak," he says.

"You are wrong," you say.

He laughs. The laugh is dry. The laugh is like leaves. The leaves are dead. The leaves are brown. The leaves are rotting.

"You are the thief," he says.

"I am the owner," you say.

"You stole it from me," he says.

"I bought it," you say.

"You stole it from the earth," he says.

"I took it from the shelf," you say.

"You stole it from your life," he says.

"I carried it here," you say.

He points at the bowl. His finger is thin. His finger is white. His finger is a bone.

"Look at it," he says.

You look at it. You have looked at it a thousand times. You have looked at it a million times. You know it. You know every speck. You know every crack. You know every stain.

"It is empty," he says.

"Yes," you say.

"It is broken," he says.

"Yes," you say.

"It is useless," he says.

"Yes," you say.

"Then why do you keep it?" he asks.

You do not answer. You do not know the answer. You have searched for the answer. You have searched for ten years. You have searched in your dreams. You have searched in your waking. You have searched in the dark. You have searched in the light. You have not found it.

The room is cold. The cold is biting. The cold is hungry. The cold eats you.

The figure stands closer. He is close now. He is in your space. He is in your air. He smells of dust. He smells of earth. He smells of rot.

"Give it to me," he says.

"No," you say.

"I will take it," he says.

"No," you say.

He reaches out. His hand is fast. The hand is a blur. The hand grabs the bowl.

You grab the bowl.

You pull. He pulls. The bowl is heavy. The bowl is light. The bowl is nothing. The bowl is everything.

The bowl slips.

It falls.

It hits the floor.

The sound is a crack. The crack is sharp. The crack is loud. The crack is final.

The bowl breaks.

Shards fly. The shards are white. The shards are bright. The shards are like teeth. The shards are like ice.

The bowl is gone.

The table is empty. The floor is full. The floor is covered in white. The white is a snow. The white is a bone.

You look at the shards. You look at your hands. Your hands are empty. Your hands are clean. Your hands are free.

The figure is gone.

The door is open. The wind is blowing. The wind is cold. The wind is clean.

You are alone.

You are still alone.

You stand up. Your legs are weak. Your legs are shaky. Your legs are old.

You walk to the window. You open the window. You open it wide.

The night air rushes in. The air is cold. The air is sharp. The air is alive.

You look out. The sky is dark. The stars are bright. The stars are far. The stars are cold. The stars are indifferent.

You look at your hands. Your hands are still. Your hands are quiet. Your hands are still holding something.

You open your hands.

There is nothing there.

There is only air.

There is only space.

There is only you.

You breathe in. The air fills your lungs. The air is cold. The air is clean. The air is new.

You breathe out. The air leaves your body. The air is warm. The air is moist. The air is gone.

You look at the floor. The shards are there. The shards are white. The shards are bright.

You pick up a shard. It is sharp. It cuts your finger. The blood is red. The blood is warm. The blood is alive.

You hold the shard. You hold it tight. The pain is sharp. The pain is real. The pain is yours.

You are here.

You are now.

You are alive.

You let the shard fall. It hits the floor. It joins the others. It is part of the whole. It is part of the past. It is part of the dead.

You turn away.

You walk to the door.

You step out.

You close the door behind you.

The lock clicks. The click is soft. The click is final.

You walk into the night. The night is dark. The night is cold. The night is vast.

You walk. You walk. You walk.

Your feet are on the ground. The ground is hard. The ground is cold. The ground is real.

You are walking away. You are walking forward. You are walking into the unknown.

You do not look back.

You do not need to look back.

It is gone.

It is all gone.

The bowl is gone. The room is gone. The past is gone.

You are here.

You are now.

You are free.

The wind blows. The wind is cold. The wind is clean.

You smile.

The smile is small.

The smile is sad.

The smile is free.

You walk into the dark.

The dark takes you.

The dark is empty.

The dark is full.

You are the dark.

You are the light.

You are the space between.

You are the breath.

You are the pause.

You are the silence.

You are the sound.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

You are the middle.

You are the now.

You are the only thing that matters.

You are the only thing that remains.

You are the only thing that is real.

You are the only thing that is true.

You are the only thing that is you.

You are free.

You are free.

You are free.