The hammer strikes. You feel the ring in your teeth. The air tastes of copper and old blood. You swing back. The shadow swings with you. It is lighter than you. It is faster. You are bleeding. The red is bright. It is not your red. Or is it? You do not know. You stop. You breathe. The air is thick. It hangs in the chest.

This is the Hall of Mirrors. It is not glass. It is polished steel. It is a cage. The floor is cold stone. Your feet hurt. You are a prisoner. You are the guard. You are the key. You are the lock.

"Look at you," the mirror says. Its voice is yours. It is rough. It is wet. "Look at the mess you are making."

You wipe your mouth. The blood is warm. You lick your lips. It tastes of iron. It tastes of home. It tastes of her.

Eleanor.

The name is a stone in your shoe. It has been there for years. It is small. It is sharp. It cuts with every step. You ignore it. You cannot stop. You must break the mirror. If you break the mirror, the pain stops. If you break the mirror, you are free.

"Is that it?" the mirror asks. "Is that all you have? A wife and a hammer?"

You grip the handle. The wood is slick. Your hand slips. You catch it. You are strong. You are the strongest thing in this room. You are the best. You are the saint. You are the sinner.

You remember the kitchen. The yellow light. The smell of bread. It is a sweet smell. It is a lie. The bread is burnt. The table is empty. There is only one plate. There is only one chair. You are sitting in it. You are eating. You are hungry. You are always hungry.

Eleanor stood by the door. She did not speak. She did not move. Her eyes were wide. They were full of water. They were full of fear.

"Where are you going?" she asked. Her voice was small. It was a bird in a cage.

"Work," you said. "I have to work."

"You are already late," she said. "You are always late."

You smiled. It was a sharp smile. It was a wolf’s smile. "I will be back soon."

You were not back soon. You were never back soon. You were gone. The door closed. The sound was a click. It was a lock.

Now, in the Hall, the mirror tilts. It shows you your back. You are hunched. You are broken. You are not a man. You are a thing. You are a dog. You are a beast.

"You are a monster," the mirror says.

"I am a king," you shout. Your voice cracks. It is a thin sound. It is a child’s sound.

"No," the mirror says. "You are a fool."

You swing. The hammer hits the steel. There is no sound. There is only pain. The vibration goes up your arm. It goes into your heart. It stops there. It beats against the bone. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The mirror does not break. It does not scratch. It stays whole. It stays clean. It reflects your ugliness. It reflects your shame.

You drop the hammer. It falls with a clank. It is heavy. It is useless. You pick it up. You put it down. You pick it up.

"Give it to me," the mirror says.

"Shut up," you whisper.

"Give it to me."

You throw the hammer. It flies through the air. It hits the mirror. It bounces off. It hits you. It hits your forehead. The pain is sudden. It is white. It is hot.

You fall. You hit the floor. The stone is cold. It bites your cheek. You taste the dust. You taste the grit.

The mirror walks. It walks toward you. It has legs. It has arms. It has a face. It is your face. But it is smiling. It is a gentle smile. It is a kind smile.

It kneels. It picks up the hammer. It looks at you. It looks at the hammer. It looks at the blood on your lip.

"You love her," the mirror says. It is not a question.

You do not answer. You cannot. Your mouth is full of blood.

"You love her," it says again. "More than yourself. More than pride. More than power."

You try to speak. You cough. You spit. The blood is red. It is bright.

"She is waiting," the mirror says. "She is always waiting. She is the only real thing. You are the illusion."

You feel the truth. It is a cold wind. It blows through you. It empties you. It cleans you. You are empty. You are nothing. You are just a hole in the air.

"Who am I?" you ask.

"You are the one who broke the world," the mirror says. "And you are the one who must fix it."

"How?"

"By letting go."

You look at the hammer. It is on the floor. It is small. It is insignificant. You look at your hands. They are shaking. They are weak. They are human.

The mirror stands. It turns. It walks away. It walks into the wall. It disappears. The wall is smooth. It is cold. It is empty.

You are alone.

The silence is loud. It roars. It screams. It howls. You are in the void. You are in the dark. You are in the light.

You stand up. Your legs are stiff. Your back is sore. You look around. The mirrors are gone. There are only walls. There is only stone. There is only you.

You walk. You walk to the center of the room. You sit down. You put your head in your hands. You close your eyes.

You think of Eleanor.

You think of the bread.

You think of the burnt crust.

You think of the way she looked at you. It was not fear. It was not anger. It was sadness. It was a deep, quiet sadness. It was the sadness of a flower that knows winter is coming.

You realize it now. You see it now. The truth is not in the mirror. The truth is in the memory. The truth is in the pain. The pain is not a curse. The pain is a gift. It is the proof that you are alive. It is the proof that you loved.

You are not a monster. You are not a saint. You are a man. You are a flawed man. You are a broken man. But you are loved. You are loved, even in your brokenness.

You open your eyes. The room is different. It is not a cage. It is a room. It is a simple room. There is a door. It is wooden. It is old. It is worn.

You stand up. You walk to the door. You reach out. Your hand hovers. It is trembling. You are afraid. You are so afraid.

You push the door. It opens.

The light is soft. It is golden. It is warm. It is the light of the sun. It is the light of morning. It is the light of hope.

You step out.

The air is fresh. It smells of grass. It smells of rain. It smells of life.

You are standing in a field. The grass is tall. It is green. It is alive. The sky is blue. The clouds are white. They are drifting. They are slow. They are peaceful.

You walk. You walk through the grass. The blades brush against your legs. They are soft. They are cool. They are kind.

You do not know where you are going. You do not need to know. You are going to her. You are going to the place where the bread is baked. You are going to the place where the love is real.

You are not a prisoner. You are not a king. You are a traveler. You are a seeker. You are a soul.

The sun rises. The day begins. The world turns. The wheel spins. The clock ticks.

You are free.

You are whole.

You are home.