The Palace has loomed high on the hill for as long as the people can remember. It seems older than time, eternally in shadows. It is known as The Palace and nothing else. No one lives there. No one dares push back the gates. Everything gets quieter near The Palace. It’s as if the shadows have a physical weight, and a fog fills the ears of listeners and softens the footfalls of those who dare to walk the streets.  

The Palace is old and sad. The people fear it. They have good reason. For as long as they can remember, it has always happened on the seventh day of the seventh month. Someone is chosen to push past the gates. Someone leaves, and they never return. It is something the people do not speak of, something they try to forget. But The Palace is at the center of town. They cannot escape it. 

When their children begin to ask why, the people simply explain that this is the way it has always been. They fear what would happen if they failed to send someone to The Palace. They fear the shadow that they can sense within its walls. So, every year, without fail, their feet shuffle through the crooked, cobbled streets to a gathering where no one looks anyone else in the eyes. Lots are drawn, quiet tears are shed, and one person enters The Palace.  

It is the same this year, the people think. They shuffle through the streets with their heads down and their hearts in their throats. It is almost dark. They flow into the square like a tide of shadows. Each one has brought a candle, unlit.  

A circle forms wordlessly. Then the bag is brought forth—ominous, heavy. All that can be heard is the clacking of the stones within the velvet prison. Slowly, the drawstrings are opened, and one shaking hand reaches inside. The whole circle holds its breath, some in hope of good, others secretly wishing the worst.  

A black stone emerges, clutched firmly in stout fingers. They are safe. The bag changes hands, and one by one, black stones are drawn. Those who have drawn them hide their joy for the sake of the others, who watch with mounting fear. It goes on and on, over and over, a cycle within a cycle. Unbroken. And then, finally, white.  

The white stone emerges, clutched firmly in the young, pale hands of a beautiful girl. The villagers know her, not well, but they know her. She sings in the evenings with a voice made of light. They will miss her.  

Her deep blue eyes stay strong, framed by long hair the color of burnished bronze. She curls the white stone into her fist and holds out the bag. The villagers who have drawn their stones slowly shuffle towards her, dropping them one by one back into place. There is relief and loss in the air, mourning and selfish joy.  

As the last stone is placed back in the bag, her parents light their candles. From those candles, the rest are lit, all except one. The girl places her own candle back in her pocket, unlit. She is no longer one of them. She is alone, and yet, this parade of lights will walk her to the gates.  

They surround her silently, in a last sign of hope, of solitude, of love. Silently, they wind their way up the hill. Past the faces of children stuck in the windows—those who are too young to understand what is going on. All they see is a parade of candles. They do not see the girl who holds a stone.  

A chill rushes through the night, and the candles sputter when at last they reach the tall black gates. On this night, they are unlocked. No one knows who holds the key. The gates are locked on all other nights.  

Slowly, a ring of people forms around the girl. She has not shed any tears, not yet, which is strange. She is braver than they knew. Now it is time for her to go. She hands the bag to her father and the white stone to her mother. Her parents have shed their tears. The girl wipes them away. There are a few softly whispered words, and then she turns to the gates.  

Her head is held high. Her cheeks are dry. If she is afraid, her eyes do not show it. She lays a hand on the old iron gates and pushes. They open slowly on hinges that shriek from a year of disuse. She steps inside, and the gates clang shut behind her. 

One by one, the little lights behind her make their way back to their homes, until there are only two left. The girl takes care not to look back at them as she walks onward, past the wall and the gates, to the black door that seems to gape like a mouth even when closed. As she steps inside, the last two lights go out.  

Her name is Laurel. Her name is Laurel, and this is her world now. She cannot go back. She cannot escape. She must go through for as long and as far as she can. Who knows what will happen after that? If The Palace knows, it certainly won’t tell.  

She is alone in a dark and silent world, and it is strange to her, but she holds her head high and steps away from the door. She has no goal in mind, so she moves aimlessly. A white figure in a world of shadow, floating from room to room.  

She never finds food in The Palace, but she is never hungry. She never finds water in The Palace, but she is never thirsty. She never finds light in The Palace but finds that she does not need it.  

As she passes through a room, her mind wanders. She imagines what it might look like: a rich, expansive ballroom—but no. No, she can feel an ornate table beneath her fingertips. Her fingers are her guides in this world of shadow. They flutter over walls, tapestries, and gilded candelabras.  

In the beginning, she is clumsy and slow, knocking into chairs and tables and walls. She moves more cautiously. She learns, and she does not realize it, but she begins to move like a shadow, herself. Her wanderings go from nervously excited to mundane. She grows used to the landscape. She grows bored. That’s when it happens.