I woke with the taste of copper in my mouth. It was thick. It coated my teeth. It was not blood. It was something older. Something medicinal.

The room was dark. The light came from a crack in the plaster. It was narrow. It was gray. I lay still. My hands were bound. The rope was rough. It bit into my wrists. I did not struggle. I had learned that struggle only tightened the knot. I waited for the pain. It did not come. Only the taste.

A shadow moved in the corner. It was large. It wore a coat of black wool. The fabric was worn. The elbows were frayed. The man stepped forward. His boots made no sound on the stone floor. He was tall. His face was hidden in the hood.

"Is she awake?" he asked. His voice was low. It was dry. It sounded like sand in a tin can.

"I am here," I said. My voice was small. It broke on the last word. I tried again. "I am here."

He stopped. He looked at me. I could not see his eyes. I could only see the darkness where they should be. He crouched down. He was close. Too close. I could smell him. It was the smell of damp earth. And iron.

"Do you know why you are here?" he asked.

I shook my head. The movement was slow. The rope pulled. I winced. He did not flinch.

"You are a healer," he said. It was not a question. "You make the sickness go away. You use the herbs. You use the poultices. You use the time."

"I make the body rest," I said. I kept my eyes on the floor. I looked at the stone. There was a crack in it. It ran like a river. "I do not kill."

"Killing is easy," he said. "Killing is quick. I do not want quick. I want slow. I want the memory to fade. I want the pain to leave. And then I want the rest."

He reached out. His hand was gloved. The leather was black. It was cracked. He touched my chin. His fingers were cold. He tilted my face up. I saw his eyes then. They were bright. They were wet. They were full of a terrible hunger.

"My son," he said. "He is sick. The fever will not break. The doctors say he is gone. They say he is already dead. I do not believe them. I know he is alive. I can feel his breath. I can feel his heart. But his mind is drifting. He is going somewhere I cannot follow. I need you to bring him back."

"I cannot bring the dead back," I said.

"He is not dead," he said. He stood up. He paced. His boots scuffed the stone. "He is waiting. He is waiting for the threshold. He is waiting for the door to open. I need you to open it."

I felt a coldness in my chest. It spread out. It reached my fingers. It reached my toes. I remembered the herbs. I remembered the tinctures. I remembered the bitter taste of the nightshade. I had used it once. It was to stop a bleeding. It was to save a life. I had measured it with a scale. I had weighed it in grams. It was precise. It was clinical. It was not magic. It was chemistry.

"I am not a mage," I said.

"You are a scientist," he said. "You understand the body. You understand the mechanism. I do not care about the label. I care about the result. Will you do it?"

I looked at my hands. The rope rubbed against my skin. I saw the marks. They were red. They were angry. I thought of my daughter. She was young. She was in the city. She was safe. Or so I thought. I thought of her face. She had my eyes. She had my stubbornness. She would not forgive me. She would not understand. She would say I had sold my soul.

"I need tools," I said.

He smiled. It was a thin smile. It did not reach his eyes. He walked to the wall. He opened a cabinet. It was made of oak. It was old. The wood was dark. He took out a box. He set it on the table. He opened it.

Inside were vials. They were glass. They were small. They contained liquids of different colors. Blue. Green. Red. Clear. There were needles. They were steel. They were sharp. There were syringes. They were plastic. They were modern. They did not belong in this room. They did not belong in this time.

"This is an anesthetic," he said. He picked up a vial. It was clear. "It will stop the pain. It will stop the fear. It will stop the mind. But it will not stop the heart. I need you to find the balance. I need you to keep him alive while you let him go."

I looked at the vials. I knew them. I had synthesized them. I had made them in my lab. I had tested them on rats. I had tested them on myself. I knew the dosages. I knew the side effects. I knew the limits.

"And if I fail?" I asked.

"Then he dies," he said. "And you die with him."

It was simple. It was brutal. It was honest.

They took me to the hospital. It was not a hospital. It was a house. It was large. It was old. The walls were thick. The windows were small. The air was stale. It smelled of lavender. And decay.

They brought me to a room. It was at the end of a long hall. The door was heavy. It was iron. It was locked. They opened it. I walked in.

My son lay on the bed. He was pale. His skin was gray. His chest moved. It was slow. It was shallow. His eyes were closed. His lips were cracked. He looked like a doll. He looked like a thing.

I sat on the chair. The wood was hard. It hurt my back. I looked at him. I did not know him. I did not know his name. I only knew that he was sick. I only knew that he was dying.

I took the box. I opened it. I arranged the vials. I checked the needles. I prepared the syringes. My hands were steady. My mind was clear. I was a machine. I was a tool. I was the instrument.

I started with the clear vial. The anesthetic. I injected it into the line. I watched the fluid flow. It was slow. It was steady. I watched his eyes. They did not move. I waited.

I took the blue vial. The sedative. I injected it. I watched his breathing. It slowed. It deepened. I watched his face. It relaxed. The tension left it. The lines smoothed. He looked peaceful.

I took the green vial. The stimulant. I injected it. I watched his heart. It beat. It was strong. It was fast. I watched his blood pressure. It rose. It was high. Too high. I adjusted the rate. I slowed it down. I brought it back to normal.

I worked for hours. I did not feel time. I did not feel hunger. I did not feel thirst. I only felt the pulse. I only felt the breath. I only felt the weight of his life. It was heavy. It was fragile. It was in my hands.

The man in the black coat stood in the corner. He watched. He did not speak. He did not move. He was a statue. He was a shadow.

The fever broke. The sweat ran from his forehead. It was hot. It was wet. I wiped it away. I changed the sheets. I cleaned his skin. I massaged his limbs. I kept the blood flowing. I kept the mind quiet.

The sun rose. The light came through the window. It was bright. It was warm. It touched the bed. It touched my face. I felt it. I felt the heat. I felt the life.

My son opened his eyes.

They were dark. They were clear. They were empty.

He looked at me. He did not recognize me. He looked through me. He looked at the wall. He looked at the ceiling. He looked at the void.

"He is here," the man said. His voice was soft. It was sad. "He is here."

My son smiled. It was a small smile. It was a gentle smile. It was a smile of peace.

"I am tired," he said. His voice was weak. It was thin. It was like a whisper in the wind. "I am so tired."

"Rest," I said. I did not know why I said it. I did not know why I wanted him to rest. I wanted him to live. I wanted him to fight. I wanted him to struggle.

"No," he said. "I am going."

He closed his eyes. His breathing slowed. It became shallow. It became faint. I watched the monitor. The line flatlined. The beep stopped. The silence was loud. The silence was deafening.

I did not move. I did not breathe. I did not cry. I felt nothing. I was empty. I was hollow. I was a shell.

The man stepped forward. He took my hands. He cut the rope. The knots fell away. The skin was raw. It was red. It was bleeding. I did not feel the pain.

"Thank you," he said.

I looked at him. I looked at his face. I saw his eyes. They were dry. They were empty. They were like mine.

"I did not save him," I said.

"No," he said. "You did not save him. You released him."

I stood up. My legs were weak. They shook. I held onto the bed. I held onto the rail. I felt the metal. It was cold. It was hard.

"What will happen to me?" I asked.

"You will leave," he said. "You will go back to your city. You will go back to your life. You will forget this. You will forget him. You will forget the taste of the copper."

I looked at my son. He was still. He was cold. He was gone.

"I will not forget," I said.

The man nodded. He turned away. He walked to the door. He opened it. The light flooded in. It was blinding. It was white. It was pure.

I walked out. I walked down the hall. I walked into the street. The city was waking up. The cars were moving. The people were walking. The sounds were loud. The noise was overwhelming.

I walked to the park. I sat on a bench. The wood was cold. The air was crisp. The leaves were falling. They were red. They were orange. They were brown.

I looked at my hands. The marks were fading. The skin was healing. The pain was returning. It was sharp. It was bright. It was real.

I thought of my daughter. I thought of her face. I thought of her voice. I thought of her love. It was heavy. It was warm. It was the only thing that kept me here.

I took a deep breath. The air filled my lungs. It was cold. It was clean. It was free.

I was free.

The price was high. The price was everything. The price was him.

I closed my eyes. I waited for the taste. It did not come. Only the silence. Only the peace. Only the end.

I opened my eyes. The sun was high. The light was bright. The world was turning. The world was moving. I was still. I was part of it. I was part of the flow.

I stood up. I walked away. I did not look back. I did not look back.

The threshold was behind me. The door was closed. The lock was dead.

I walked into the city. I walked into the life. I walked into the light.

The copper taste was gone. The copper taste was gone.

I was alive.