The road wound through the mist.

Elias walked.

He was twelve years old.

His boots were wet.

The mud sucked at his heels.

He carried a box.

It was made of oak.

It was heavy.

It was gold.

Not the gold of coins.

Not the gold of teeth.

It was the gold of light.

It glowed faintly.

A warm, amber pulse.

Like a heart.

Elias clutched it to his chest.

The handle cut into his fingers.

He did not stop.

He could not stop.

The house loomed ahead.

It was large.

It was white.

It was empty.

The windows were dark.

Black squares in the white walls.

Like eyes.

Watching.

Waiting.

Elias reached the door.

It was locked.

He knocked.

No answer.

He knocked again.

Harder.

The wood echoed.

*Thud. Thud. Thud.*

Silence returned.

Thick.

Heavy.

He looked down at the box.

The light flickered.

It was fading.

He felt a cold dread.

It crept up his spine.

He had to get in.

He had to hide it.

He had to save it.

Who would take it?

Who would steal the light?

He searched his pockets.

No key.

He had lost it.

Or perhaps he never had it.

Memory was slippery.

Like water.

Like mist.

He remembered the journey.

The long walk.

The cold wind.

He remembered the voice.

The voice that said, *Bring it back.*

The voice was kind.

The voice was cruel.

The voice was his own.

He pushed the door.

It gave way.

It was not locked.

It had never been locked.

He stepped inside.

The floor was cold.

Stone.

It bit through his shoes.

He walked into the hall.

The hallway was long.

It stretched into shadow.

The air smelled of dust.

And old paper.

And rot.

He walked forward.

The box pulsed against his ribs.

*Thump. Thump.*

Like a second heart.

He reached the stairs.

They were steep.

He climbed.

One step.

Two steps.

His legs burned.

His breath came in short gasps.

He reached the landing.

A door stood open.

A bedroom.

He entered.

The room was sparse.

A bed.

A chair.

A window.

The bed was empty.

The sheets were white.

They looked like bones.

He placed the box on the bed.

The light filled the room.

The shadows retreated.

For a moment, the room was bright.

Beautiful.

Warm.

Elias sat on the edge of the bed.

He stared at the box.

He felt a strange calm.

He felt a strange hunger.

He reached for the latch.

His hand shook.

He unlocked it.

The lid lifted.

The light poured out.

It was blinding.

It was liquid.

It spilled over his hands.

It spilled over his face.

He felt it touch his skin.

It felt like fire.

It felt like ice.

It felt like love.

He screamed.

No sound came out.

The light wrapped around him.

It entered his eyes.

It entered his ears.

It entered his mouth.

It filled his lungs.

He felt his body change.

His skin became translucent.

He could see his veins.

They glowed.

He could see his heart.

It beat in sync with the box.

He realized the truth.

The box was empty.

The light was not inside.

The light was him.

He was the vessel.

He had carried himself.

All this time.

He had walked the miles.

He had climbed the stairs.

He had saved himself.

But why?

Who was he saving it for?

He looked at his hands.

They were fading.

They were becoming light.

He tried to close the box.

His fingers did not obey.

They dissolved.

He tried to scream again.

His voice was gone.

He was becoming the light.

He was becoming the master.

The golden master.

He understood then.

The house was not a home.

It was a cage.

The mist was not weather.

It was the wall.

He was not a boy.

He was a ghost.

He had died before.

He had died in this room.

He had died with the light in his hands.

And now, he had come back.

To do it again.

To carry the box.

To climb the stairs.

To open the lid.

To become the light.

It was a cycle.

A loop.

A wheel.

He could not stop.

He did not want to stop.

The light was beautiful.

The light was free.

He let go.

His body fell.

It crumpled.

It became dust.

It became mist.

The box closed.

The light vanished.

The room was dark again.

Silence returned.

Thick.

Heavy.

Then, a sound.

Footsteps.

On the stone floor below.

Slow.

Deliberate.

A boy walked up the stairs.

He was twelve years old.

His boots were wet.

He carried a box.

It was made of oak.

It was heavy.

It was gold.

Elias watched.

He was the mist.

He was the dust.

He was the shadow in the corner.

He watched the boy enter the room.

He watched the boy place the box on the bed.

He watched the boy unlock the latch.

He felt a pang of pity.

He felt a pang of joy.

He knew what would happen.

He had done it.

He would do it again.

He was the golden master.

He was the slave.

He was the light.

He was the dark.

He was the boy.

He was the ghost.

He was the house.

He was the mist.

He was the wheel.

The boy lifted the lid.

The light poured out.

It filled the room.

It filled Elias.

He felt the fire.

He felt the ice.

He felt the love.

He felt the hate.

He felt the end.

He felt the beginning.

He was the wheel.

He turned.

He turned.

He turned.

The light faded.

The room was dark.

The boy was gone.

Only the dust remained.

And the mist.

And the silence.

And the waiting.

The road wound through the mist.

A boy walked.

He was twelve years old.

His boots were wet.

The mud sucked at his heels.

He carried a box.

It was made of oak.

It was heavy.

It was gold.

Not the gold of coins.

Not the gold of teeth.

It was the gold of light.

It glowed faintly.

A warm, amber pulse.

Like a heart.

Elias clutched it to his chest.

The handle cut into his fingers.

He did not stop.

He could not stop.

The house loomed ahead.

It was large.

It was white.

It was empty.

The windows were dark.

Black squares in the white walls.

Like eyes.

Watching.

Waiting.

Elias reached the door.

It was locked.

He knocked.

No answer.

He knocked again.

Harder.

The wood echoed.

*Thud. Thud. Thud.*

Silence returned.

Thick.

Heavy.

He looked down at the box.

The light flickered.

It was fading.

He felt a cold dread.

It crept up his spine.

He had to get in.

He had to hide it.

He had to save it.

Who would take it?

Who would steal the light?

He searched his pockets.

No key.

He had lost it.

Or perhaps he never had it.

Memory was slippery.

Like water.

Like mist.

He remembered the journey.

The long walk.

The cold wind.

He remembered the voice.

The voice that said, *Bring it back.*

The voice was kind.

The voice was cruel.

The voice was his own.

He pushed the door.

It gave way.

It was not locked.

It had never been locked.

He stepped inside.

The floor was cold.

Stone.

It bit through his shoes.

He walked into the hall.

The hallway was long.

It stretched into shadow.

The air smelled of dust.

And old paper.

And rot.

He walked forward.

The box pulsed against his ribs.

*Thump. Thump.*

Like a second heart.

He reached the stairs.

They were steep.

He climbed.

One step.

Two steps.

His legs burned.

His breath came in short gasps.

He reached the landing.

A door stood open.

A bedroom.

He entered.

The room was sparse.

A bed.

A chair.

A window.

The bed was empty.

The sheets were white.

They looked like bones.

He placed the box on the bed.

The light filled the room.

The shadows retreated.

For a moment, the room was bright.

Beautiful.

Warm.

Elias sat on the edge of the bed.

He stared at the box.

He felt a strange calm.

He felt a strange hunger.

He reached for the latch.

His hand shook.

He unlocked it.

The lid lifted.

The light poured out.

It was blinding.

It was liquid.

It spilled over his hands.

It spilled over his face.

He felt it touch his skin.

It felt like fire.

It felt like ice.

It felt like love.

He screamed.

No sound came out.

The light wrapped around him.

It entered his eyes.

It entered his ears.

It entered his mouth.

It filled his lungs.

He felt his body change.

His skin became translucent.

He could see his veins.

They glowed.

He could see his heart.

It beat in sync with the box.

He realized the truth.

The box was empty.

The light was not inside.

The light was him.

He was the vessel.

He had carried himself.

All this time.

He had walked the miles.

He had climbed the stairs.

He had saved himself.

But why?

Who was he saving it for?

He looked at his hands.

They were fading.

They were becoming light.

He tried to close the box.

His fingers did not obey.

They dissolved.

He tried to scream again.

His voice was gone.

He was becoming the light.

He was becoming the master.

The golden master.

He understood then.

The house was not a home.

It was a cage.

The mist was not weather.

It was the wall.

He was not a boy.

He was a ghost.

He had died before.

He had died in this room.

He had died with the light in his hands.

And now, he had come back.

To do it again.

To carry the box.

To climb the stairs.

To open the lid.

To become the light.

It was a cycle.

A loop.

A wheel.

He could not stop.

He did not want to stop.

The light was beautiful.

The light was free.

He let go.

His body fell.

It crumpled.

It became dust.

It became mist.

The box closed.

The light vanished.

The room was dark again.

Silence returned.

Thick.

Heavy.

Then, a sound.

Footsteps.

On the stone floor below.

Slow.

Deliberate.

A boy walked up the stairs.

He was twelve years old.

His boots were wet.

He carried a box.

It was made of oak.

It was heavy.

It was gold.

Elias watched.

He was the mist.

He was the dust.

He was the shadow in the corner.

He watched the boy enter the room.

He watched the boy place the box on the bed.

He watched the boy unlock the latch.

He felt a pang of pity.

He felt a pang of joy.

He knew what would happen.

He had done it.

He would do it again.

He was the golden master.

He was the slave.

He was the light.

He was the dark.

He was the boy.

He was the ghost.

He was the house.

He was the mist.

He was the wheel.

The boy lifted the lid.

The light poured out.

It filled the room.

It filled Elias.

He felt the fire.

He felt the ice.

He felt the love.

He felt the hate.

He felt the end.

He felt the beginning.

He was the wheel.

He turned.

He turned.

He turned.

The light faded.

The room was dark.

The boy was gone.

Only the dust remained.

And the mist.

And the silence.

And the waiting.