You are late.

I heard it before I saw him. The voice came from the mist. It was low. It was rough. Like gravel under a shoe.

I stopped walking. My feet were bare. The ground was cold. It was wet with dew. Or maybe blood. I could not tell. The fog here was thick. It tasted of iron. It tasted of old things.

"Where are you?" I asked.

My voice was small. It did not echo. The fog swallowed it.

I looked down. I saw my hands. They were not my hands. They were too big. The fingers were long. The nails were black. I looked at my arms. The skin was pale. It was translucent. I could see the blue lines under the skin. They moved.

I did not feel fear. I felt a strange calm. It was the calm of a child who has lost a toy. It is a quiet sadness. It is a finality.

I kept walking. I had to find him. I had to be late.

The path was not a path. It was a line in the fog. I followed it. My steps made no sound. The silence was heavy. It pressed against my eardrums.

I remembered the house. The white paint was peeling. The garden was overgrown. There were thorns everywhere. I used to run there. I used to hide in the bushes. I waited for her. She always came. She brought bread. She brought milk. She brought her hand.

Her hand was warm. It smelled of soap. It smelled of lavender. I held it. I held it until my own hands hurt. I wanted to keep it. I wanted to keep the warmth.

But the warmth went away. It always went away.

I saw a tree ahead. It was black. It had no leaves. The branches reached out like bones. I walked toward it. The fog parted.

He was there.

He stood by the tree. He was tall. He wore a coat. It was dark. It was long. It reached his feet. He did not turn around. He knew I was there.

"I am here," I said.

He turned.

His face was not a face. It was a mirror.

I looked into it. I saw myself. But not me. I saw a boy. He was young. He was dirty. He was crying. He was holding a doll. The doll was broken. The doll was me.

I looked closer. I saw another boy. He was older. He was angry. He was hitting the wall. He was bleeding. He was hitting the wall because he was afraid. He was afraid of the dark. He was afraid of the quiet. He was afraid of his own reflection.

I looked again. I saw a man. He was old. He was tired. He sat in a chair. He held a photo. The photo was of a woman. She was smiling. She was looking at someone else. He was looking at her. He was waiting. He was always waiting.

The faces in the mirror shifted. They moved. They talked. They screamed.

"Who are you?" I asked.

He did not answer. He pointed to the mirror.

"I am you," I said.

The mirror showed me a knife. I was holding it. The blade was wet.

I dropped it. It did not hit the ground. It sank into the fog.

"I don't want to be you," I said.

The mirror showed me a door. It was closed. It was locked. I was on the other side. I was locked out.

"I want to go home," I said.

The mirror showed me the house. It was burning. The fire was red. The smoke was black. I was watching it burn. I was not moving. I was not saving anyone. I was just watching.

"Why?" I asked.

The mirror showed me her face. It was pale. It was still. It was not smiling. It was not looking at anyone. It was looking at nothing.

"I didn't mean to," I said.

The mirror cracked. A thin line ran down the glass.

I felt a pain in my chest. It was sharp. It was cold. It was the pain of a break.

I looked at the man. He was gone. Only the tree remained. The branches were moving. They were like hands. They were reaching for me.

I ran.

I ran through the fog. My feet did not touch the ground. I was flying. Or falling. I did not know. The air was cold. It bit my skin.

I saw a light. It was small. It was yellow. It was far away.

I ran toward it.

The fog was getting thicker. It was getting darker. The light was getting smaller.

I ran.

I ran.

I ran.

The light went out.

I was alone.

The fog closed in. It was like a wall. It was like a mouth. It opened. It swallowed the sky.

I stood still.

I looked at my hands. They were back to my hands. They were small. They were clean. They were shaking.

I waited.

The fog did not move. The darkness did not move.

I remembered the bread. The milk. The lavender.

I remembered the warmth.

I closed my eyes.

I let go.

The pain stopped. The cold stopped. The silence stopped.

I opened my eyes.

I was in the garden.

The sun was up. The sky was blue. The thorns were red. The white paint was peeling.

I was on the ground. I was on my knees. My knees were in the dirt.

I looked up.

The house was there. The door was closed.

I stood up. My legs were weak. I leaned against a bush.

I looked at my hands. They were clean. They were mine.

I walked to the door. I did not knock. I pushed it open.

The door creaked. It was old. It was heavy.

I stepped inside.

The room was dark. The air was stale. It smelled of dust. It smelled of time.

I walked to the center of the room. I stopped.

There was a chair. It was wooden. It was empty.

I looked around. There was a table. There was a window. The window was covered with dust.

I walked to the window. I wiped the glass.

I looked out.

I saw the garden. I saw the thorns. I saw the fog.

The fog was not in the garden. The fog was in my eyes.

I looked down.

On the floor, there was a doll.

It was small. It was white. It was broken. One eye was missing. The other eye was glass. It was black.

I picked it up.

It was cold. It was light.

I held it. I held it tight.

I did not cry. I did not speak.

I sat in the chair.

I held the doll.

I waited.

The sun moved across the floor. The dust motes danced in the light. They were slow. They were quiet.

I watched them.

I remembered the mirror. I remembered the faces. I remembered the knife.

I did not want to remember. But I could not forget.

The pain was still there. It was in my chest. It was in my hands. It was in my bones.

It was part of me.

I looked at the doll. I looked at its black eye.

It was looking at me.

I looked back.

I did not blink.

The sun went down.

The room got dark.

I did not move.

I sat in the chair.

I held the doll.

I waited for the morning.

I knew it would come.

I knew I would be here.

I knew I would be alone.

I knew I was late.

But I was here.

I was home.

The darkness was complete.

I was in it.

I was part of it.

I was the dark.

I was the silence.

I was the wait.

I closed my eyes.

I let go.

The pain was gone.

The cold was gone.

The silence was gone.

I was nothing.

I was everything.

I was the fog.

I was the tree.

I was the man.

I was the boy.

I was the doll.

I was the mirror.

I was the break.

I was the wait.

I was here.

I was late.

I was home.