You dream of a glass jar. It sits on a shelf that is too high to reach, yet close enough to see. The jar is empty. Or maybe it is full of light. You cannot tell. The light is white and thin, like the breath of a ghost in winter.

You wake up. The room is cold.

"Did you see it?"

The voice comes from the corner. It is Thomas. He is sitting on the floor, his back against the wall. He looks thin. His eyes are bright.

"I saw the jar," you say.

"Was it full?"

"I don't know."

"Then it was empty," Thomas says. "We must fill it."

You look at the jar in the dream-mind. It is still there. It hovers in the air above the bed. It is a vessel for something precious. Something that will break if you look too hard.

"Thomas, why are we here?"

"To find the truth," he says. "The truth is in the jar. We must get it."

You sit up. The sheets are tangled around your legs. The room is a small stone cell. The walls are damp. There is a single window, high up, letting in a square of gray light. It is the only light.

"We have been here for three days," you say.

"Four," Thomas corrects. "Time is different in the dream. We must be quick."

You look at him. He is smiling. It is a sharp smile. It does not reach his eyes.

"What is in the jar?" you ask.

"Knowledge," he says. "The kind that burns."

You feel a pull in your chest. It is not fear. It is hunger. You want the jar. You want to hold it. You want to know what it costs.

"Show me," you say.

Thomas stands up. He moves to the center of the room. He holds out his hand. In his palm is the jar. It is small. It is clear. It is empty.

"Put your hand in," he says.

"You said it was empty."

"It will be full," he says. "When you take the truth out of yourself."

You hesitate. The jar looks cold. It looks fragile.

"Thomas, I am afraid."

"Good," he says. "Fear is the key. Without fear, the truth has no weight."

You reach out. Your fingers touch the glass. It is smooth. It is cold. You slide your hand inside. The glass is tight against your fingers. It feels like a second skin.

"I feel nothing," you say.

"Wait," Thomas says.

You wait. The silence is heavy. It presses against your ears. You look at Thomas. He is watching you. His face is still.

"I still feel nothing."

"Deeper," he says. "Dig."

You try to dig. You reach for the bottom of the jar. There is no bottom. The glass goes on and on. It is a tunnel. It is a throat.

"I see it," you whisper.

"What?"

"The light."

"Is it white?"

"No," you say. "It is black."

Thomas laughs. It is a short, dry sound.

"You are mistaken," he says. "The truth is not black. The truth is white. You are confused."

"I am not confused."

"You are afraid. Fear makes the truth look dark."

"I am not afraid."

"Liar," Thomas says.

The word hits you. It is hard. It is sharp. You pull your hand back. The glass slips. You grab it. You hold it tight.

"Let go," Thomas says.

"No."

"Let go, or it will break."

"I will not let go."

"You are a fool," Thomas says. "You think you can hold the truth. You think you can keep it. You cannot."

"I can."

"Watch."

Thomas moves toward you. He is fast. He grabs your wrist. He twists. The jar slips from your hand. It hits the stone floor.

It does not break.

It shatters.

The pieces fly. They are like stars. They are like sparks. They land on the floor. They glow.

"Look," Thomas says.

You look. The pieces are gone. There is only dust. There is only a faint smell of ozone.

"Where is it?" you ask.

"Gone," Thomas says.

"You destroyed it."

"I freed it."

"You lied."

"I told you what you wanted to hear. I told you the jar was full. I told you the truth was in it. But the truth was not in the jar. The truth was in the breaking."

You feel the floor under your feet. It is cold. You feel your hands. They are empty. You look at Thomas. He is standing over you. He is breathing hard.

"Why?" you ask.

"Because you could not handle the weight," he says. "You wanted the knowledge. You wanted the power. But you did not want the pain. The knowledge is a curse. It eats you."

"I want it."

"No," Thomas says. "You do not. You are a child. You want the toy. You do not want the lesson."

"I am not a child."

"You are," he says. "You are always a child. You are always the one who wants the candy. You are never the one who eats the pill."

You look at the spot where the jar was. There is a mark on the stone. It is a dark stain. It looks like a tear.

"I will find it again," you say.

"You will not," Thomas says. "You will forget. That is the mercy. You will forget the jar. You will forget the light. You will forget the pain."

"I will not forget."

"You will," he says. "It is the price. The knowledge is the curse. But the forgetting is the cure. You will live. You will forget. And you will be free."

You want to argue. You want to scream. But your voice is gone. Your mouth is dry. You look at Thomas. He is turning away. He is walking toward the window.

"Wait," you say.

He stops. He does not turn around.

"Was the jar real?"

"It was real," he says. "To you. That is enough."

"Who are you?"

"I am the one who knows," he says. "I am the one who paid. I am the one who forgot."

You look at his back. He is thin. He is fragile. He is like the glass.

"Thomas," you say.

He does not answer.

"Thomas, please."

He turns. His face is blank. It is like a mask. It is like the stone wall.

"Go," he says. "Go to sleep. Dream again. But do not look for the jar. Do not look for the light. Look for the dark. The dark is safe. The dark is kind."

You close your eyes. The room fades. The cold fades. The fear fades.

You are in the bed. The sheets are warm. The sun is rising. It is a soft, pink light. It comes through the window. It lands on your face.

You open your eyes. You are in your room. It is your childhood room. The walls are blue. The toys are on the shelf. The jar is on the shelf.

It is full.

It is full of sand.

You pick it up. It is light. It is empty. You shake it. The sand moves. It makes a sound like rain.

You look at your hands. They are clean. They are soft. You are young. You are small.

You remember the dream. You remember Thomas. You remember the break.

You feel a sadness. It is deep. It is quiet. It is like a stone in your chest.

You put the jar back on the shelf. You turn away. You go to the window. You look at the street. The people are walking. They are busy. They are alive.

You know the truth. You know the price. You know the cost.

You choose to forget.

You choose to live.

The jar sits on the shelf. It is empty. It is full. It is both. It is nothing. It is everything.

You do not look at it again.

You do not need to.

The light is in the room. The light is in the air. The light is in you.

And it is enough.