The Cabinet

I opened the door with a slow, almost ceremonial motion, the cold keys clenched in my unsteady hand like an awkward confession. What I would discover beyond, I didn’t yet know, but already a curious shiver ran down my spine. This strangely silent cabinet seemed to have been waiting for me for centuries, patient like those heavy silences that precede sharp revelations.

From the moment I stepped inside, something greeted me: an indescribable fragrance, dense and melancholic, a mix of aged wax and wood steeped in humidity. There was also a faint, cloying sweetness—something almost carnal—perhaps dark honey oozing from a crack in an old tree. The air floated like an ancient vapor, and beneath my feet, the echo of the wooden floor whispered muffled confidences.

It was almost a sanctuary, though its altars were not made for prayers. At first glance, nothing—or almost nothing. A stark room, devoid of ornament. But as I advanced, I noticed a cold pedestal in the center, black as void. There it rested—isolated—a dark seed, round and hermetic, like a fist gripping a secret. No casing to conceal or exalt the object. Life, raw and contained, slept in silence.

I leaned closer to observe it, but the shadows of that seed seemed to absorb the very light. It defied all expectations, all promises: a beginning that refused to be. It was my original model—the one I had always protected, kept hidden, preserved as a relic. The primordial seed. The unique essence I believed only I safeguarded.

All my sighs, my impatience, my curiosity slipped off it like rain on stone.

Did I, too, have such a seed buried deep within my soul—fertile yet inert, locked in the grip of deliberate stillness?

Tearing myself away from this mystery, I moved forward, as often happens in dreams when our steps carry us toward an unknown we fear but cannot resist.

The next room, dimly lit, felt like a fold within the soul itself. The walls seemed draped in silence, and on a low table, two shards of mirror lay side by side, separated by a sharp fissure. Between them stretched absence—an invisible, throbbing wound.

I approached and, with troubled fascination, stared at my fragmented face reflected in those pieces. My reflection felt foreign, split into two mismatched beings, and my doubled eyes gazed back at me with a painful irony.

That was it: the need to perform, to share, to present a version of myself to the world—and simultaneously, the hidden need for intimate recognition, familial pride, the validation of those who truly knew me. Two mirrors that would never touch. Two sides of the same desire. Two halves that refused to unite.

What was meant to be shown here? Was it a portrait of humanity fractured by doubt and failure, or the precise reflection of the soul that had walked through this door: always searching, never whole, unable to reconcile its two halves?

I stepped back, as though retreating from a truth too stark, too violent.

A warmer breath of air suddenly emerged, as if the room itself exhaled from invisible depths. Moving forward into a richer, wood-paneled alcove, my gaze fell upon three uncut crystals set within a dark metal basin. Between them, a liquid, shimmering and fluid, trickled gently—gleaming like living mercury.

I lingered for what felt like hours, hypnotized by that silver stream weaving between the stones, an endless murmur. The water seemed neither to begin nor to end: an eternal path without origin or destination. My mind, strangely, found both soothing calm and aching thirst in its flow.

This was what those close to me expected of me—this celebration, this mutual recognition, this dance of three where everything dissolves and is purified together. Not just professional exchanges. True communion. Shared pride.

Was this what I had been waiting for? The simple, continuous motion, the ceaseless flow, where everything dissolves and purifies? It was a promise of harmony, a rhythm coursing through my heart. A part of me longed to immerse itself, to lose itself in that warm water with its scents of rose and ashes… I had to look away.

And then came the cold. A terrible cold, sharp as a blade cutting into time’s flesh. Before me, two spectral-white salt statues reached toward one another, frozen in an incomplete gesture of supplication. Between them swirled an immense, relentless void.

Snowflakes fell ceaselessly here, landing timidly on my skin. I touched the grain of those figures, majestic in their immobility. The salt melted under my fingers instantly, and the dampness seeped into my palms like a wound with the taste of failure.

It was fear. The fear that had always paralyzed me. The fear of being seen for who I really was—not good enough, unfit, an imposter. Not enough. Never enough. And this obsessive need for validation, this voice in my head screaming: they will discover you don’t truly belong here.

Was this an act of love turned sour that these figures embodied? Or an eternal trial, an impossible closeness that fate delighted in prolonging, again and again? This poignant distance became the cruel mirror of my own flaws, a cold truth: my longings carried within them their own undoing.

Leaning against the walls for support, my steps eventually brought my eyes to an even more brutal scene: a sword, burnt red by fire, stabbed into the heart of a charred trunk, surrounded by swirling ashes. The blackened walls bore deep scars, wounds left by a rage I seemed to recognize—a muted anger, directed outward and inward alike.

These were the recent battles. The judgments. The people who told me I didn’t fit, who said I had to defend myself, justify myself, prove my worth at every turn. The critiques that scorched me. The doubts planted in me like blades.

The atmosphere was suffocating. It was the heat of a solitary fight, one you might win, but which leaves marks no light can erase. Touching the ashes, I realized I had fought here before, the fire searing through me, shaping me into someone forged by pain and the urgency to survive.

But something had changed. Watching the sword, I realized suddenly: I no longer needed to respond to every attack. It was no longer necessary. That belief—the one that told me I had to constantly fight, to prove my worth at every blow—was crumbling like the ashes under my fingers.

And then… the light. A gentle, radiant, unexpected light. A final room—a suspended garden seeming to float in the Ether. Black flowers basked in a golden silence, while brilliant fruits hung heavily from curling stems. Everything was alive, yet tranquil. A kingdom of serene beauty.

I stood among the ivy and columns like an exile finally returned home. This garden… It was a silent victory, the harmony built against all odds, after the battles, after the snow, after the blades.

I had made it. That thought rose softly, without triumph, just with the calm certainty of someone finally able to admire her creation. Not to prove anything. Just to see. To behold what she had forged, despite everything.

At the very heart of the cabinet awaited me still: a circular room lined with ancient mirrors. At its center, an empty throne, overgrown with moss and wild ivy, and upon it, a crown of branches laid gently, like an abandoned treasure.

That emptiness… It was not an absence. It was an enormous, fertile offering, a space left open. And suddenly, I understood what no one had ever told me: the unique model can multiply. The Empress—this creative force within me—could bring all the seeds to life, not just the primordial one. The original model was not a prison. It was a source.

I no longer needed to guard that dark seed so jealously. I could share it. I could let it multiply. I could let it grow without fear.

In the reflection of the mirrors, everything returned: the dark seed, the fractured mirror, the shimmering water, the frozen statues, the burning sword, the suspended garden. It was all connected. It was all me.

And for the first time, it wasn’t a prison. It was an invitation.

The keys slipped from my hand and fell onto a marble pedestal, resonating like a final word. Before leaving, I whispered, unsure if I was speaking to the cabinet or my own heart:

“Thank you.”

But the cabinet didn’t answer. It didn’t need to.

Because now, I knew: I could answer for myself.

Billie E.