The fourth morning came with wind.
Real wind.
It rattled the windows.
Banged the porch swing.
Carried the smell of distant rain.
Law woke to the sound of the dog barking at nothing.
He sat up.
The house was the same.
But the photos on the wall had changed again.
Now there were six frames.
Five adults.
One little girl.
All of them smiling.
All of them looking at something just out of frame.
Law touched one photo.
His finger left a print.
The glass was cold.
He went downstairs.
The kitchen was empty.
Coffee pot cold.
Toast burnt and forgotten on the counter.
Laura's spatula lying like it had been dropped mid-flip.
Law's stomach tightened.
He walked to the back door.
Opened it.
The yard was empty.
No little girl.
No chalk drawing.
Just grass.
And footprints.
Small ones.
Leading away from the house.
Into the field.
Law followed.
The footprints were fresh.
The grass bent but didn't break.
He walked until the house was a speck behind him.
Until the footprints stopped.
At a single white flower.
Bigger than the others.
It was shaped like a door.
Law knelt.
The flower opened.
Inside was a mirror.
Small.
Hand-sized.
Perfectly clear.
He looked into it.
And saw himself.
Not older.
Not younger.
Just him.
Standing in the field.
Holding the mirror.
But in the reflection, he was alone.
No Four behind him.
No dog.
No little girl.
No house.
Just him.
And the sky.
Watching.
Law's hand shook.
He closed the mirror-flower.
It didn't close.
It stayed open.
The reflection smiled.
It was his smile.
But it had teeth.
"You can't run forever," it said.
Law stood.
Looked back at the house.
It was farther than it should have been.
Like the field had grown while he wasn't looking.
He started walking back.
The grass whispered under his feet.
Words.
His name.
Over and over.
He walked faster.
The house didn't get closer.
The field stretched.
The sky darkened.
Not clouds.
Something moving behind the blue.
Law ran.
The house stayed the same size.
A speck.
The grass turned to white flowers.
They sang.
His mother's lullaby.
But wrong.
Too slow.
Too hungry.
He stopped.
Turned around.
The mirror-flower was following him.
Floating.
Open.
The reflection was closer now.
Standing right behind him.
In the glass.
Law looked over his shoulder.
Nothing there.
He looked back at the mirror.
The reflection waved.
Law didn't.
The reflection's smile widened.
"You left the door open," it said.
Law's voice.
But older.
Tired.
Certain.
He closed his fist around the mirror-flower.
It cut him.
Blood dripped.
White petals turned red.
The reflection bled too.
But it kept smiling.
Law crushed it.
The mirror shattered.
Shards fell.
And became words in the grass.
YOU CAN'T CLOSE ALL THE DOORS
Law looked at the house.
It was gone.
Only the field.
Only the sky.
Only him.
And the reflection.
Standing where the house used to be.
Holding the crown.
Waiting.
Law took one step toward it.
Then another.
The reflection took one step back.
Law stopped.
The reflection stopped.
Law smiled.
It wasn't kind.
"Fine," he said.
"Keep the house."
He turned his back on it.
And walked the other way.
Into the field.
Into the flowers.
Into the sky that had forgotten how to watch.
But was learning how to wait.
Behind him, the reflection called.
With his own voice.
"You'll come back."
Law didn't answer.
He just kept walking.
Until the reflection's voice faded.
Until the field ended.
Until there was only horizon.
And five heartbeats catching up behind him.
Laura's voice first.
"Law?"
He stopped.
Turned.
They were there.
Real.
Breathing hard.
Eyes wide.
Laura looked past him.
At the place the house used to be.
"It's gone."
Law nodded.
"Good."
Liora's voice was small.
"Where do we go now?"
Law looked at the horizon.
It was empty.
Perfectly empty.
He smiled.
"Forward."
They walked.
Five heartbeats.
One path.
No house.
No mirror.
No watchers.
Just forward.
The white flowers behind them began to close.
One by one.
Like eyes.
Finally.
Finally.
Closing.