The glass did not break. It breathed.

Margaret stood in the center of the atrium. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and old paper. She held a silver fork in her right hand. Her knuckles were white. The chandelier above was not glass. It was a swarm of moths. They circled in a slow, hypnotic spiral. Their wings beat against the silence. The sound was like rain on a tin roof.

She looked at the table. The table was oak. It was polished to a mirror sheen. In the reflection, she saw her own face. It was not her face. It was older. The skin was papery. The eyes were hollow. This was the future. This was the now. Time had collapsed. She was eating her own history.

The doors opened. They were heavy. They were brass. They creaked. Edward walked in. He wore a suit. It was grey. It was cut from the fabric of a funeral. He did not look at her. He looked at the wall. The wall was alive. It rippled. It was made of water. The water held memories.

Margaret sat down. The chair was cold. It bit into her skin. She waited. The wait was a physical weight. It pressed on her chest. It was the weight of years. The weight of choices. The weight of the self she had abandoned.

Edward sat opposite. He did not speak. He stared at the plate. The plate was empty. There was no food. There was only dust. The dust was golden. It shimmered. It was the dust of the library. The library that burned. The library that held their shared past.

"You are late," Margaret said. Her voice was dry. It was the voice of a woman who had forgotten how to speak.

Edward turned his head. His neck cracked. It was the sound of a branch breaking. He smiled. The smile was wrong. It was too wide. It showed teeth that were not teeth. They were stones.

"I am early," he said.

The words hung in the air. They did not dissolve. They solidified. They formed a barrier between them. The barrier was made of time. Time was the enemy. Time was the judge. Time was the executioner.

Margaret picked up the fork. She stabbed at the dust. The dust did not move. It was fixed. It was eternal. She felt a spike of anger. It was cold. It was sharp. It cut through her flesh. She had waited. She had waited for hours. She had waited for days. She had waited for years. And he had not come. He had not come until now. He had not come because he did not want to. He had chosen the silence. He had chosen the distance. He had chosen to let her rot in the waiting.

"I chose this place," she said.

Edward nodded. His head moved slowly. Like a pendulum. The pendulum was ticking. The tick was loud. It drowned out the sound of the moths. The tick was the sound of her heart. Her heart was failing. It was tired. It was old. It had beaten too many times for a man who did not love her.

"Why?" she asked.

The question was a weapon. It was a knife. It was aimed at the core of his being. She wanted the truth. She wanted the blood. She wanted to see the wound.

Edward looked at the water wall. The water moved. It formed a shape. It was a shape of a house. The house they had built. The house they had torn down. The house that was now a ghost.

"I chose to forget," he said.

The words were soft. They were gentle. They were cruel. Forgetting was not an act of mercy. Forgetting was an act of violence. It was the erasure of the self. It was the denial of the past. It was the death of the present.

Margaret felt a shock. It ran through her veins. It was electric. It was blue. It was the color of ice. She looked at her hands. They were shaking. The fork slipped from her grip. It clattered on the table. The sound was like a gunshot.

The moths stopped. The spiral broke. The moths fell. They fell like snow. They landed on the table. They landed on her hands. They landed on his face.

She looked at him. She saw the truth. It was not in his eyes. It was in the air. It was in the silence. It was in the dust. He had not forgotten. He had not chosen to forget. He had chosen to remain. He had chosen to stay in the past. He had chosen to live in the library. He had chosen to live in the fire. He had chosen to be the ash.

And she? What had she chosen?

She had chosen to wait.

She had chosen to be the widow of a living man.

She had chosen to be the guardian of a grave that was not yet dug.

She had chosen to let time consume her.

She had chosen to let the building take her.

The building was the court. The court was the power. The power was the self. The self was the choice.

She looked at the chandelier. The moths were dead. They were still. They were part of the fixture. They were part of the light. They were part of the structure.

She understood.

The understanding was a stone. It fell into the pit of her stomach. It did not bounce. It sank. It settled.

She had not been betrayed. She had not been abandoned. She had been replaced. She had been replaced by her own expectation. She had been replaced by her own narrative. She had written the story. She had cast herself as the victim. She had cast him as the villain. And then she had lived in the story. She had eaten the story. She had digested the story. And now the story was her body.

She looked at Edward. He was still. He was part of the room. He was part of the architecture. He was a column. He was a beam. He was a support.

He had become the place.

She had become the time.

And time destroys place.

Time erodes stone. Time rusts iron. Time rots wood.

She was the acid. He was the stone.

And she was eating him.

No.

She was eating herself.

The distinction was irrelevant.

The distinction was the lie.

The lie was the choice.

The choice was the self.

The self was the prison.

Margaret stood up.

The chair scraped the floor.

The sound was a scream.

It was a thin, high sound.

It was the sound of a soul tearing.

She walked to the wall.

The wall was water.

The water was cold.

She reached out.

Her hand touched the surface.

It did not break.

It absorbed.

Her hand disappeared.

Her arm disappeared.

She did not scream.

She did not cry.

She watched.

She watched her body dissolve.

It was slow.

It was gentle.

It was like sugar in tea.

It was like salt in water.

It was like memory in time.

She felt the pain.

The pain was distant.

The pain was objective.

She was the observer.

She was the scientist.

She was the judge.

She was the jury.

She was the executioner.

She was the victim.

She was the stone.

She was the water.

She was the choice.

The choice was to stop.

The choice was to let go.

The choice was to become the nothing.

The choice was to become the space.

The choice was to become the silence.

She let go.

The letting go was an act of war.

It was an act of conquest.

It was the conquest of the self.

It was the defeat of the ego.

It was the victory of the void.

The void was not empty.

The void was full.

The void was everything.

The void was the building.

The building was the self.

The self was the choice.

The choice was the end.

The end was the beginning.

The beginning was the silence.

The silence was the truth.

The truth was the peace.

The peace was the death.

The death was the life.

The life was the breath.

The breath was the air.

The air was the light.

The light was the moth.

The moth was the dust.

The dust was the memory.

The memory was the love.

The love was the obsession.

The obsession was the bond.

The bond was the boundary.

The boundary was the crossing.

The crossing was the transcendence.

The transcendence was the loss.

The loss was the gain.

The gain was the self.

The self was the other.

The other was the same.

The same was the different.

The different was the one.

The one was the many.

The many was the few.

The few was the none.

The none was the all.

The all was the nothing.

The nothing was the something.

The something was the everything.

The everything was the nothing.

Margaret was gone.

Edward was gone.

The table was gone.

The wall was gone.

The chandelier was gone.

The moths were gone.

The dust was gone.

The silence remained.

The silence was the building.

The building was the court.

The court was the power.

The power was the time.

The time was the age.

The age was the end.

The end was the start.

The start was the now.

The now was the then.

The then was the never.

The never was the always.

The always was the instant.

The instant was the eternity.

The eternity was the moment.

The moment was the breath.

The breath was the life.

The life was the death.

The death was the peace.

The peace was the love.

The love was the choice.

The choice was the self.

The self was the free.

The free was the true.

The true was the real.

The real was the fake.

The fake was the real.

The real was the dream.

The dream was the wake.

The wake was the sleep.

The sleep was the death.

The death was the life.

The life was the love.

The love was the self.

The self was the choice.

The choice was the free.

The free was the true.

The true was the peace.

The peace was the end.

The end was the beginning.

The beginning was the silence.

The silence was the all.

The all was the nothing.

The nothing was the everything.

The everything was the one.

The one was the two.

The two was the many.

The many was the one.

The one was the nothing.

The nothing was the all.

The all was the silence.

The silence was the end.

The end was the peace.

The peace was the love.

The love was the life.

The life was the death.

The death was the birth.

The birth was the beginning.

The beginning was the now.

The now was the then.

The then was the never.

The never was the always.

The always was the moment.

The moment was the eternity.

The eternity was the breath.

The breath was the air.

The air was the light.

The light was the moth.

The moth was the dust.

The dust was the memory.

The memory was the truth.

The truth was the peace.

The peace was the love.

The love was the choice.

The choice was the self.

The self was the free.

The free was the true.

The true was the real.

The real was the dream.

The dream was the wake.

The wake was the sleep.

The sleep was the death.

The death was the life.

The life was the love.

The love was the self.

The self was the choice.

The choice was the free.

The free was the true.

The true was the peace.

The peace was the end.

The end was the beginning.

The beginning was the silence.

The silence was the all.

The all was the nothing.

The nothing was the everything.

The everything was the one.

The one was the two.

The two was the many.

The many was the one.

The one was the nothing.

The nothing was the all.

The all was the silence.

The silence was the end.