The village barber refuses to cut an old man's hair, because he is terrified that letting the scissors touch the grey strands will release the spirit of his late wife.

The bell above the door jingled, a thin, sad sound in the dusty air. It was a sound Silas hated, a herald of strangers, of change.

He didn't look up. He just kept wiping the counter with a rag that was fraying at the edges.

Elias sat in the chair. The leather squeaked under his weight, a protest.

"Just a trim, Silas," Elias said. His voice rattled in his chest like loose stones. "The sides are getting too long. I look like a scarecrow."

Scarecrow.

The word hung there, heavy and mocking.

Silas froze. His hand hovered over the basin of warm water, the steam rising to curl around his fingers. He looked at Elias in the mirror. The old man’s hair was a storm of iron-grey, thick and tangled like the roots of an ancient oak.

It was beautiful. It was terrifying.

I can't. The thought came unbidden, a bird trapped in a chest.

Silas remembered the day it happened. The funeral. The grey hair on her head had been the first thing he touched when he finally broke down. It had been soft then. Still soft. Even in death. He had thought, if I cut this, I’m cutting the tie. I’m severing the cord that holds her ghost in this world.

If he cut the grey, she’d vanish. He knew it. The knowledge sat heavy on his tongue, bitter and cold.

"The door's locked," Silas muttered, avoiding the mirror.

"I know it's locked," Elias said, leaning forward. "I locked it myself."

The barber didn't look up. He kept his eyes fixed on the floorboards, the cracks where the varnish had flaked away.

"I'm busy, Elias."

"You haven't touched a customer in twenty minutes."

Silas looked at the scissors again. They gleamed. They waited. The cold steel pressed against his palm, a familiar comfort that turned into a vice.

The grey strands whispered to him. They were soft. They were waiting for the snip.

Please don't let her come back.

And please don't let her stay gone.

It was a trap. He knew it was a trap. But he couldn't see a way out.

"You have a meeting," Silas said, his voice shaking. "With the mayor. In two minutes."

Elias sighed. The sound was long and tired. "I told him I'd be here at two."

"Then you'll miss it."

"Maybe I should."

Silas flinched. He reached out, his hand hovering over the leather cape. The cape smelled of talcum powder and old sweat.

"I can't," he whispered. The words felt like stones in his throat. "I really can't."

The silence stretched. Dust motes danced in the shaft of light falling from the window, dancing in patterns that looked like a spiral, a vortex, a doorway.

Elias didn't move. He just sat there, the grey hair cascading over his ears, catching the light, anchoring him to the earth.

"Cut it, Silas."

"I'm afraid."

"I'm dying, Silas. I want to look like a man, not a cloud."

Silas looked at the scissors. The steel was sharp. It could cut through the silence. It could cut through the fear.

He stood up. His knees popped. The sound was loud in the small room.

"If she comes," Silas said, his voice tight, "I won't know what to do."

"Then you'll just have to listen," Elias said.

Silas picked up the scissors. They felt heavy, like anchors. He walked behind the chair.

The first snip was sharp. A lock of grey fell to the floor. It landed soundlessly.

Nothing happened.

The air didn't change. The temperature didn't drop. The smell of lavender soap didn't turn to rot.

Silas exhaled. A long, shuddering breath. The tension in his shoulders unspooled.

"You're trembling," Elias noted.

"I'm always trembling."

Silas kept cutting. He worked his way up the side of the old man's head. The grey hair fell like snow in a quiet forest. One lock. Then another.

The rhythm was comforting. The snip, the fall, the silence.

When he finished, Elias looked in the mirror. He ran a hand over the short, cropped hair. It looked neat. It looked clean.

"Much better," Elias said. A small smile touched his lips.

Silas looked at the pile of grey on the floor. It was a heap of memories. He felt a strange hollowness in his chest, but also a lightness.

The scissors clattered onto the counter.

"You did good, Silas."

"Did she come?" Silas asked.

Elias shook his head. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. She's gone, Silas. Just like she always was."

Silas sat back down in his chair, the springs groaning under his weight. The scissors were still cold. But this time, he didn't feel the need to touch them.

The bell above the door jingled, a thin, sharp sound that cut through the heavy silence.