The bell rings.

It is a low sound. Deep. Like a stone dropped in a well. You are twelve. You are leaving.

Your father stands by the door. He does not hug you. He holds a lantern. The glass is cracked. The flame shakes.

"Go," he says.

One word.

You go.

The road is grey. The sky is grey. The world is grey.

You carry a box. It is small. Wooden. Bound in iron. Inside is a mirror. Not glass. Silver. Old. Colder than ice.

Your father gave it to you yesterday.

"Look," he said.

You looked.

You saw him.

He was old.

Not the old man standing by the door now. That man was forty. Strong. Bearded.

The man in the mirror was eighty. Dusted in ash. His eyes were pits. He was smiling.

You dropped the mirror. It did not break. It hummed.

"Stop," your father said. "Put it back."

You put it back.

"Never look at the past," he said. "The past is a thief. It steals your legs."

You nodded.

You are twelve.

You do not understand.

The road winds.

It goes up.

The air gets thin.

You breathe hard.

Your lungs burn.

The box is heavy.

Why is it heavy?

It is just a mirror.

It is not just a mirror.

You feel it pulsing.

Like a heart.

Like a second you.

There is a boy ahead of you.

He is running.

His hair is white.

He is young.

He turns.

He smiles.

It is your face.

But older.

Much older.

"Wait," he says.

You stop.

Who is he?

"I am you," he says. "From later."

You back away.

The ground is soft. Mud.

Mud that moves.

"Help me," the boy says. "My legs are gone."

You look at his feet.

They are not feet.

They are roots.

Thick, brown roots. Digging into the earth.

He is stuck.

He is becoming the road.

"Let me go," he says. "Please."

You look at the box.

The mirror is warm.

You open it.

The silver surface ripples.

It shows you the forest ahead.

Dark trees. Tall trees.

No sky.

Only wood.

And in the trees, other figures.

Boys. Girls.

Rooted.

Smiling.

Trapped.

Your father was right.

The past is a thief.

But it is not the past that steals.

It is the future.

The future is a root.

It grows in your bones.

It pulls you down.

The boy in front of you screams.

Not a scream of pain.

A scream of joy.

"I am home," he says.

He sinks.

The mud takes him.

The roots tighten.

He is gone.

You are alone.

The box is lighter now.

Why?

Because you are lighter.

You are becoming the road.

You must run.

You must not stop.

To stop is to sink.

To sink is to know.

To know is to die.

This is the curse.

You run.

Your heart pounds.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The sound of the bell.

The sound of the door.

The sound of your father’s voice.

*Go.*

You run past the first tree.

The bark is warm.

It looks like skin.

You run past the second tree.

The leaves are eyes.

They watch.

They do not blink.

You run.

The box bumps against your hip.

The mirror shines.

You glance at it.

You see yourself.

You are running.

Your hair is white.

Your face is old.

You are not twelve.

You are eighty.

You are the man in the mirror.

You are the boy in the mud.

You are the road.

You close your eyes.

You run blind.

The air is thick.

It tastes of iron.

Of blood.

Of time.

You feel the pull.

In your ankles.

In your knees.

The earth wants you.

The earth is hungry.

It wants to know you.

It wants to keep you.

You dig in your heel.

You pull.

It hurts.

A sharp, hot pain.

Like fire.

Like life.

You refuse.

You refuse to know.

You refuse to be.

You are only twelve.

You are only running.

You are only here.

Now.

The forest ends.

Suddenly.

You are on a cliff.

The wind hits you.

Cold.

Sharp.

Below is a valley.

Green.

Alive.

Birds fly.

Small.

Bright.

They do not have roots.

They do not have mirrors.

They just fly.

You look at the box.

It is empty.

The mirror is gone.

Or perhaps you dropped it.

Or perhaps it dissolved.

Or perhaps it became part of you.

You do not know.

You do not care.

You look at the valley.

You look at the birds.

They are free.

But they are small.

They are insignificant.

They do not remember.

They do not feel.

They just fly.

Is that freedom?

Or is that emptiness?

You think of your father.

He stayed behind.

He held the lantern.

He watched you go.

He did not follow.

He did not run.

He stayed.

He chose to be the door.

He chose to be the threshold.

He chose to hold the light.

So you could see.

So you could run.

So you could survive.

He became the anchor.

You are the ship.

If you stop, you sink.

If you go, you die.

But you do not die.

You live.

In the running.

In the not-knowing.

In the blind faith.

You jump.

Not down.

Up.

You jump into the wind.

Your feet leave the ground.

For a second, you are weightless.

For a second, you are free.

Then gravity takes you.

You fall.

But you do not hit the ground.

You land on a branch.

High.

Very high.

The leaves are soft.

The wind is gentle.

You sit.

You breathe.

You are alive.

You are not old.

You are not rooted.

You are just a boy.

On a branch.

In the sky.

The sun rises.

Gold.

Bright.

It touches your face.

It is warm.

It feels like a hand.

Like your father’s hand.

On your shoulder.

*Go.*

You stand up.

You walk to the edge.

You look down.

The valley is far below.

The birds are specks.

The road is a line.

You look at your hands.

They are small.

Clean.

No roots.

No mirrors.

Just hands.

You make a fist.

You let it go.

You open your palm.

There is nothing there.

But you feel the weight.

The memory of the weight.

The curse is not the knowledge.

The curse is the wanting to know.

The curse is the mirror.

You broke the mirror.

By looking away.

By running.

By refusing to see your own face in the silver.

You are free.

Not because you are wise.

But because you are blind.

And in the blindness, there is life.

In the knowing, there is death.

You smile.

It is a small smile.

A light smile.

A child’s smile.

You jump.

Again.

This time, you do not land.

You fly.

Not like a bird.

Like a leaf.

Like a thought.

Like a whisper.

You drift.

Over the trees.

Over the valley.

Over the road.

Over the house.

Over the door.

Your father is still there.

He holds the lantern.

He watches.

He does not wave.

He does not call.

He just watches.

He knows you are free.

He knows you are gone.

He knows you will never come back.

And that is okay.

Because you are not gone.

You are everywhere.

In the wind.

In the light.

In the running.

In the not-knowing.

You are the threshold.

You are the step between.

Not here.

Not there.

But in between.

And in between, you live.

The bell rings.

One more time.

Soft.

Fading.

You close your eyes.

You sleep.

You dream of nothing.

And in the nothing, you are everything.

And in the everything, you are free.

The light grows.

The shadow fades.

You are gone.

You are here.

You are.