Fragments of Glass and Memory

Dust settles thick on my surface, dulling the glimmer I once held. Time has not been kind. Cracks splinter across my glass, jagged lines like veins tracing the years. I hang crookedly on a faded wall, the room around me still and heavy with forgotten air.

No one looks at me anymore.

But then—footsteps.

Soft, hesitant.

A door creaks open. Light floods the room, warm and unfamiliar. Someone’s here.

It’s him.

I remember him.

The boy from before.

He stands in the doorway, gaze sweeping the room. His eyes—older, wearier—but undeniably the same. I want to call out, look at me, but I am only glass and wood and silence.

Yet, his gaze lingers.

He steps closer. Hesitates. And then—

His fingers brush against me. Gentle. Careful, as if I might shatter beneath his touch. You used to laugh here, I want to say. You used to smile at me.

But those days are gone.

His hand lingers on the frame, tracing the cracks. His lips press into a thin line. Does he remember? The boy in the photo—him, a child—grinning wide beside another boy. Eyes bright. Futures unwritten.

Chris.

My heart—if I had one—aches at the thought.

But something’s different about him now. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s a weight on his shoulders that wasn’t there before. And I—I am a graveyard of memories.

He lifts me off the wall, wipes away the dust. The world tilts. I glimpse the room—the peeling wallpaper, the worn rug—and then he sets me down on an old table.

The TV flickers on.

Noise. Color. Movement.

And then—him.

Medusa.

Not the snake-haired monster from stories—but the man on the screen. Sharp suit, colder eyes. Talking about something I can’t hear through the thick silence in the room. But I know that face. I’ve seen it before. Long ago. Back when everything fell apart.

The boy—Noah—stiffens. His jaw clenches. He remembers too.

The cracks in me seem to deepen, like I’m splitting open under the weight of it all.

Flashes.

Laughter echoing in sunlit rooms. Muddy shoes on hardwood floors. Chris tugging at Noah’s sleeve—“Race you to the tree!”—and the world spinning with joy.

Then—

The room. Cold. White walls. The hum of machines. Chris crying. Noah pulling away. Their mother’s voice—sweet poison—“It won’t hurt, darling.”

But it did.

Oh, how it did.

Pain. Screaming. Bright lights searing into innocence. Chris reaching for Noah—fingers just out of reach—

And then—nothing.

Until now.

Noah’s breathing quickens. His hand tightens around me. His reflection stares back at him from my shattered surface—fractured, broken. Like me. Like everything.

Tears glisten in his eyes. "Chris," he whispers.

For a moment, I see him—Chris—smiling in the reflection. Not angry. Just... waiting.

"Free me."

No words spoken, yet they echo everywhere.

Noah stands, carries me to the fireplace. Flames flicker, shadows twist.

"I’m sorry," he says, voice breaking. "I left you."

Chris’s smile holds. "I love you, big brother."

Heat consumes me—cracks glow, memories melt.

In those final moments: two boys running barefoot, laughter filling the sky. No wires. No machines. Just freedom.

Chris waves. Thank you.

Then—darkness.