I shuffle across the room, the broken glass harmless under my thickly padded feet. Finally returning, it’s not as bad as I feared. The bodies are gone, the flames burnt out. What little of the curse remains here simply flits in and out, like the dappled shadows of leaves on the lawn—now blackened trunks and barren earth. Everything is calm.

It’s been years since I left. Though so much has changed, so much is lost, all is truly as I remembered it. The gilded paintings are still here, though the flesh of the portraits has melted and sloughed. The fine, fretwork boxes remain, however scattered or broken they may be now. The floral, spicy scent of incense lingers in the halls, though it was all burnt at once, that night, long ago.

Claws of shattered, splintered wood catch at my frayed robes, tight over my twisted frame. I’m glad that you aren’t here to see this. While I can appreciate how much of the halls and cloisters remain, intact, I know that all that you once held in your hands is gone. You loved the gardens and orchards. Now, only dead stems break through the salted ground. It doesn’t matter. There’s nobody waiting in the kitchens to store and bake the sweet fruits any more.

These rooms remain, cold and frozen in time. No wind disturbs the crinkled ash of holy books. This was my curse. The tall, green trees outside these sandstone walls stare in. Their waxy needles point in accusation—they know what I’ve done. I wonder if somehow, somewhere, you know too. I was young and foolish then. How was I to know that the glittering treasure I gave, bathed in blood, would take all the plain treasures of this place?

Reaching down, I pick up a small portrait in a frame that was somehow overlooked by the fire. I never really knew the person staring back, but know that once upon a time I saw them every day. For just one precious moment, I see in the cracked glass the whole room, restored to its former splendour. Leafy fruit trees wave gracefully outside, flooding the narrow cloisters with green-tinted sunlight, bright against the faded tapestries.

The reflected image is lost, and once again I am faced with the dull, dusty broken surface of the glass frame. I lift it against the light, trying once again to catch that fleeting illusion-
-and see you.

I stand motionless, so scared that what I see is another cruel trick of the picture frame. I can tell that for all its terrible power, the curse has not changed you at all. It is of no concern to me that, as I stand here gazing into your reflection, all you see of me are the claws, teeth, horns, bloodied robes of the devil that brought destruction to our home.

“Happy with your treasure are you, monster? I knew you’d come back. I’ve been waiting for you.”

I turn. You’re alive—nothing else matters right now. It’s then that I see the duelling pistol you hold in your hand. After so many years, I’m not even sure I can speak to explain. “Brother, wait...”

The pistol retorts sharply. A silver sixpence pierces my heart. Only then do you realise your mistake. A life built on false memories. “Oh...” You run over to me. Finally, all is forgiven, but it’s already too late to mend the wounds. Instead, you ask: “Brother, do you remember?”

I smile. For a moment before I close my eyes the light of the leaves of the fruit trees illuminates the room again, one last time. “Yes,” I reply, “yes, I remember. Even monsters have memories...”