The rain did not fall. It hung.

A gray curtain of mist, thick as wool, wrapped the valley. I tightened the strap of my pack. The leather bit into my shoulder.

"Stay close, Thomas," I whispered.

Thomas did not answer. He was a shadow against the fog. He held the lantern. The flame was blue. It did not flicker.

We walked on the path. The stones were slick. Moss grew in the cracks. Green. Bright. Sickly.

I thought of my father. He had left us on the hill. The night the bells stopped.

"Light," he had said. "Take the light."

I had taken it. I had left him.

The memory was a stone in my throat. Heavy. Cold.

Thomas stopped. He turned. His face was pale. The eyes were wide.

"The gate," he said.

I looked ahead. The mist parted. A wall stood there. High. Black. Made of bones.

No. Not bones. Stone. Carved.

A door. Small. Iron.

"The threshold," Thomas said.

I stepped forward. My boot slipped. I caught the wall. The stone was warm.

"Why here?" I asked.

"Because it is open," Thomas said. "Only here."

I shook my head. "It is a trap."

"Is it?" Thomas smiled. It was a thin smile. Sharp. "Or is it a door?"

I looked at the lantern. The blue flame pulsed. Like a heart.

I had come this far. Through the woods. Over the river. Past the dead.

I had to go through.

"Come," I said.

Thomas raised the lantern. The light touched the iron door.

The metal shivered. It did not rust. It shone.

The door opened.

Silence.

Not the silence of empty rooms. The silence of held breath.

We stepped inside.

The air changed. It was sweet. Rotten. Like flowers on a grave.

A room. Small. Round. Walls of mirror.

No. Not mirrors.

Eyes.

Thousands of eyes. Watching.

I gasped. I pulled my hand to my mouth.

Thomas did not look up. He looked at the floor.

"Here," he said.

I looked down.

A mirror lay on the ground. Broken. Shards. Glass.

In the largest shard, I saw myself.

But I was not alone.

My father was there.

He was young. He wore the red coat. The coat I had lost.

He was smiling.

"Thomas," I said. My voice cracked. "Who is that?"

Thomas pointed to the mirror. "Look closer."

I leaned in. The glass was cold. It burned my skin.

My father looked up. He did not see me. He saw something else. He looked at the corner of the room.

He raised his hand. He waved.

I felt a pull. A tug behind my navel.

"Who is he talking to?" I asked.

Thomas did not answer. He was crying. Silent tears. He wiped them with his sleeve.

"Let me see," I said. I reached for the lantern.

Thomas pulled back. "No."

"Why?"

"Because you will see the truth."

"I am ready."

"You are not."

"Thomas." I grabbed his arm. "Give me the light."

He shoved me. Hard.

I fell back. I hit the wall. The eyes on the wall blinked.

"Go," Thomas said. "Go now."

"What is happening?"

"You are not the one who left," Thomas said.

The words hung in the air. Sharp. Cutting.

"What?"

"Your father did not leave you. You left him."

I shook my head. "No. He pushed me. He said..."

"Lies," Thomas said. "He never pushed you. You ran. You ran because you were afraid of the dark."

The lantern flared. The blue light turned white.

I looked at the mirror again.

The image of my father was fading.

In its place, I saw a boy.

Me.

I was running. I was small. I was alone.

Behind me, my father stood on the hill. He was calling.

"Thomas! Thomas!"

But I did not hear. I only heard the wind.

I had thrown the lantern over my shoulder. I had not turned back.

I had been so proud. So free.

I had thought I was escaping.

I was not.

I was losing.

The room began to shake. The mirrors cracked.

Glass fell like snow.

"Thomas!" I screamed.

He was gone.

The space where he had been was empty.

Only the lantern remained.

It rolled to my feet.

The flame was red now.

Hot.

I picked it up.

The heat seared my palm. I did not drop it.

I could not.

The door behind me was gone.

The eyes on the wall were closing. One by one.

Darkness.

I was alone.

I had won.

I had crossed the threshold.

I was free.

But the light was heavy.

It pulled at me. Down. Into the floor.

The floor was soft. Like mud. Like flesh.

I sank.

My boots disappeared. My knees. My waist.

I could not move.

I looked at the lantern.

It was not a lantern.

It was a heart.

My father’s heart.

I had carried it for years.

I had thought it was a gift.

It was a burden.

I had thought I was strong.

I was weak.

I had thought I was free.

I was a prisoner.

The darkness rose.

I closed my eyes.

I let go.

The weight lifted.

The pain stopped.

I floated.

In the dark.

In the quiet.

I was nothing.

And that was enough.

The mist cleared outside.

The sun rose.

The valley was empty.

The path was gone.

The wall was gone.

Only the grass remained.

Green.

Bright.

Alive.

A single shard of glass lay in the dirt.

It caught the light.

It did not break.

It stayed.

Waiting.

For no one.

I was the no one.

I was the waiting.

I was the silence.

The story ended.

The reader began.

You feel it.

The pull.

The weight.

The heat.

You know the name.

You know the face.

You know the hill.

You know the choice.

To run.

Or to stay.

You chose.

Did you?

Look in the mirror.

Who is there?

Is it you?

Or is it him?

The light is blue.

The door is open.

Step in.

Step out.

It does not matter.

The threshold is within.

You have crossed it.

You are free.

You are lost.

You are home.

The end.

The beginning.

The middle.

Always.

The rain falls.

The mist clears.

The heart beats.

The story ends.

You remain.

I remain.

We remain.

Together.

Alone.

Free.

Bound.

The end.