You stand at the gate.

It is not a gate of wood. It is a line in the air. A seam. You can see the dust motes trembling on one side, still and golden. On the other, they are gone. Eaten.

Your hand is on the latch. Or where the latch should be. Your fingers are numb. The cold here is not temperature. It is absence.

"Go back," says the voice from the house.

It is my mother’s voice. But it is hollowed out. Like a bird with its insides removed.

I do not go back.

I am the shield. I am the wall. I am the thing that holds the line.

The house breathes. The windows are eyes. The door is a mouth. It has been waiting for me for forty years. I can feel it in my teeth. A grinding, white heat.

You walk in.

The foyer is long. The carpet is red. It looks like dried blood. It feels like flesh.

"Who are you?" the voice asks.

"I am the one who keeps the peace," you say.

Your voice is small. It bounces off the walls and comes back distorted. Older. Tired.

"You are the mistake," the house says.

You know this. You have always known this.

The system is broken. The law is a lie. We built walls to keep the monsters out, but the monsters are us. We are the monsters. And the walls are our skin.

You move deeper.

The hallway stretches. It should not be this long. The house is not this big. But space is a suggestion here. Time is a rumor.

You hear footsteps behind you.

Heavy. Deliberate.

It is your brother.

He is holding a sword. It is made of glass. It is sharp enough to cut light.

"Stop," he says.

"I cannot stop."

"You are tired."

"I am always tired."

He looks at you. His eyes are red. Not from anger. From blood. He has been cutting himself. He is feeding the house.

"Why do you do this?" he asks.

"Because if I stop, it gets out."

"It is already out."

He steps closer. The glass sword gleams. It reflects your face. In the reflection, you are old. You are wearing armor made of bone.

"Let me kill you," he says.

"No."

"Please."

"I am the boundary."

"You are the wound."

He swings the sword.

The glass shatters.

Not against you. Against the air.

The sound is like a scream. A high, thin shriek that tears the silence apart.

The house shudders. The floor tilts.

The seam in the air widens.

You can see it now. The thing on the other side. It is not a monster. It is a mirror. It is a thousand mirrors. And in every mirror, there is a version of you. A version of your brother. A version of your mother. They are all screaming. They are all reaching out.

The justice system is a cage. And we are the bars.

You look at your brother. He is bleeding. The blood is black. It drips onto the red carpet and spreads. It looks like ink.

"I am sorry," he says.

"I know."

"We cannot win."

"We did not try to win."

He falls to his knees. The glass shards are in his hands. He is not crying. He is shaking.

The house is speaking now. Not in words. In pressure. In weight. It is pressing down on your chest. On your lungs. It wants you to break. It wants you to admit that you are nothing. That you are a ghost in a machine that eats itself.

You stand up.

You walk toward the door. The main door. The one that leads to the street. The one that leads to the world.

The world is waiting. The world is full of people who do not know. They walk on the pavement. They buy coffee. They argue about taxes. They do not know that the ground is thin. That the sky is a lid. That we are the hinges.

You open the door.

The night air hits you. It smells of rain and exhaust and rot.

Your brother is behind you. He is standing now. He is holding the hilt of the broken sword. The glass is gone. Only the metal remains. Rusty. Red.

"Come with me," you say.

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"I am part of the lock."

You look at him. You see the truth in his face. The tragedy of it. He is not a traitor. He is a component. Like you. Like the walls. Like the air.

We are all components.

You step outside.

The street is empty. The streetlights are on. They buzz like flies.

You look back at the house. The windows are dark. The mouth is closed.

But you can feel it. The pull. The hunger.

It is not just in the house. It is in the street. It is in the pavement. It is in the silence between the cars.

The system is everywhere.

You turn around.

You walk down the street.

Your feet do not touch the ground. They float. An inch above the asphalt.

You are not walking. You are hovering.

You are the threshold.

You are the place where the real ends and the false begins.

You walk until the street ends. There is no end. The street loops. It circles back to the house.

You are going in circles.

You have always been going in circles.

The rain starts.

It is cold. It soaks your clothes. It runs down your face. It tastes like iron.

You stop.

You stand in the middle of the loop.

The house is behind you. The dark mouth is open again.

You close your eyes.

You remember your mother. She used to sing. She used to say that the walls keep the cold out. She lied. The walls keep the truth in.

You open your eyes.

You pick up a stone.

It is heavy. It is rough. It is real.

You throw it.

It flies through the air. It does not hit the house. It hits the air. The seam. The boundary.

The stone shatters.

The air ripples.

The house screams.

Not a sound. A vibration. A shaking of the bones in your ears.

You feel the change.

The weight lifts.

Not gone. But lighter.

You are not the wall anymore.

You are the crack.

The crack is where the light gets in. Or the dark. It depends on where you stand.

You stand in the rain.

Your brother is on the porch. He is watching you. He does not wave. He does not smile. He just watches.

He knows what you did.

He knows what it costs.

The cost is silence.

The cost is being forgotten.

You turn away.

You walk into the rain.

You do not look back.

The house is behind you. It is getting smaller. Not in size. In presence.

It is becoming a story. A rumor. A ghost.

You are becoming a person.

A flawed, tired, broken person.

But a person.

The rain stops.

The sun comes up.

It is a pale, weak sun. It looks like a bruise on the sky.

You are still floating.

Your feet do not touch the ground.

You will never touch the ground again.

You are the threshold.

And the threshold is the only place that is safe.

Because the threshold is nothing.

And nothing cannot be broken.

You walk on.

The world is quiet.

The world is waiting.

You are the silence.

You are the space between the beats.

You are the breath before the word.

You are the distant threshold.

And you are alone.

And you are free.

And you are dying.

But slowly.

So slowly.

You can almost hear the end.

It sounds like a door closing.

Softly.

Gently.

Like a mother tucking a child into bed.

Like a judge reading a verdict.

Like a lover saying goodbye.

You close your eyes.

You let go.

The rain starts again.

You do not feel it.

You are gone.

You are here.

You are the threshold.

The story ends.

The story begins.

You stand at the gate.

It is not a gate of wood.

It is a line in the air.

Your hand is on the latch.

Your fingers are numb.

"Go back," says the voice.

You do not go back.

You walk in.

The house breathes.

You are the shield.

You are the wall.

You are the thing that holds the line.

And the line is breaking.

And you are breaking with it.

And it is beautiful.

And it is terrible.

And it is true.