You wake with the taste of iron and honey in your mouth. It is a heavy flavor, cloying and sharp, like blood mixed with preserved fruit. You are standing in a room that smells of wet wool and old parchment. The light comes from no window you can find. It is a pale, uniform glow that seems to seep from the walls themselves, casting no shadows.

You look down at your hands. They are not your hands. They are thick, scarred, and covered in dirt that looks like dried mud. You wear a tunic of roughspun grey. A belt of leather holds a sword at your hip, though the hilt feels light, dead, as if the metal has forgotten how to cut. You are a soldier. You know this not because you remember training, but because your body knows the weight of the weapon. It is an instinct, primal and deep, settling into the marrow of these borrowed bones.

A voice speaks from the corner of the room. It is low, amused, and entirely too close.

"You’re staring at your feet, Commander. A bad habit. They don’t bite, unless you let them."

You turn. A man sits on a stone bench. He is dressed in the same grey, but his armor is polished to a mirror shine. He is younger than you, or perhaps he simply looks it, with a face that is smooth and unlined, though his eyes are ancient and tired. He holds a cup of dark liquid. He drinks. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Who are you?" you ask. Your voice is rough, scraped raw by smoke you do not remember breathing.

"I am the one who sent you here," he says. "Or perhaps the one who kept you here. The distinction is academic."

"Where is here?"

"Where you refuse to go." He smiles. It is a thin, cruel thing. "You have been fighting for three days, Commander. Or three centuries. Time is a suggestion in this place."

You try to move. Your legs feel heavy, leaden. You take a step. Then another. The floor is cold stone. "I am not a commander," you say. "My name is Thomas. I am a clerk. I live in Bristol. I pay my taxes."

The man laughs. It is a dry sound, like leaves skittering on pavement. "Thomas the Clerk. Yes. The man who wrote the letter to his wife but never sent it. The man who stood at the edge of the river and did not jump, but did not walk away either. You are here because you froze, Thomas. And things that freeze, rot."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Know it," he says, standing up. He is taller than you. He moves with a fluid grace that makes you feel clumsy, awkward. "Know it, and you can leave. Deny it, and you eat the rot."

He extends his hand. In his palm sits a piece of bread. It is dark, dense, and steaming faintly, though there is no heat in the room. It smells of yeast and ash.

"Eat," he commands.

"I am not hungry."

"You are starving. You have been starving for a long time."

You look at the bread. It is simple. It is food. It is life. But it also looks like a stone. It looks like the grave you are afraid to dig for yourself. You step back. "No."

The room shifts. The light flickers. The smell of wet wool becomes the smell of gunpowder. You hear the crack of a whip. A scream, distant and ragged, echoes through the stone.

"You are a coward," the man says. His voice is no longer amused. It is cold, flat, and hard as the floor. "You are a man who hid behind paperwork while the world burned. You thought that if you did nothing, you would not be guilty. You thought that if you stayed small, you would be safe. But smallness is a coffin, Thomas. And you are buried in it."

"I was trying to save her," you say, and the words tear out of you before you can stop them. "My wife. Eleanor. She was sick. The doctors said... they said..."

"They said what?"

"That it was her time."

"And so you let it be. You let it be, and you felt nothing. That is the rot. Not the fear, Thomas. The numbness. You chose numbness because it was easier than grief. And numbness is a poison. It spreads. It eats the soul until there is nothing left but the hunger."

He holds the bread out again. His hand is steady. "Eat it. Break the spell. Accept the pain, and you may go."

You look at the bread. You think of Eleanor. You think of her hands, thin as twigs, resting on the white sheets. You think of the silence in the hospital room, a silence so loud it rang in your ears. You remember the letter you wrote. *I am here. I am sorry. I am afraid.* You remember never sealing the envelope. You remember locking it in the drawer and walking away, telling yourself you needed time. Telling yourself that grief was a luxury you could not afford.

"I can't," you whisper.

"You can. You have always been able. You are stronger than this. You are a soldier in this dream, Thomas. Act like one."

You close your eyes. You try to reach for the memory of her face, but it is blurry, fading. The only thing that is real is the taste in your mouth. The iron. The honey. The rot.

"Who are you?" you ask again, your voice shaking.

"I am you," he says. "The part of you that wanted to run. The part of you that wanted to be strong but was too afraid to be. I am the mirror you refused to look into."

The room begins to crumble. The stone walls turn to dust. The light fades. You are falling. You are falling into a dark, cold place where the only thing that matters is the hunger.

You open your eyes.

You are in your bed in Bristol. The rain is tapping against the windowpane. It is morning. The light is grey and soft. You are wearing your nightclothes. Your hands are your own hands. They are pale, thin, and unscarred.

You sit up. Your heart is pounding. It is a heavy, physical thing, thumping against your ribs like a trapped bird. You look at the nightstand. The clock reads 7:00 AM.

You get out of bed. Your legs feel weak, but they hold you. You walk to the dresser. You open the drawer. The envelope is there. The letter to Eleanor. It is yellowed now, the paper brittle.

You pick it up. Your fingers tremble. You open it. You read the words you wrote three years ago. *I am here. I am sorry. I am afraid.*

You read it again. And again. The words are simple. They are small. But as you read them, you feel a pain in your chest that is sharp and bright. It is not numbness. It is grief. It is the raw, bleeding truth of what you lost and what you did.

You sit on the edge of the bed. You hold the letter. You do not fold it. You do not put it back in the drawer. You hold it in your lap, and you let the pain wash over you. You let it burn. You let it break you open.

The phone rings. It is a jarring, loud sound. You stare at it. It rings and rings. You let it stop. You let the silence return. But it is a different silence now. It is not empty. It is full. It is full of the echo of your own breath.

You stand up. You walk to the window. You look out at the street. It is wet and grey. A man is walking a dog. A woman is carrying a bag. The world is continuing. It does not care about your grief. It does not care about your fear. But you are here. You are awake.

You walk to the kitchen. You make tea. Your hands are steady. You pour the water. You watch the leaves unfurl in the cup. You drink. It is hot and bitter. It tastes like life.

You go back to the bedroom. You pick up the letter. You walk to the desk. You sit down. You take a pen. You do not write a new letter. You do not write to Eleanor. She is gone. You cannot change that. You cannot undo that.

But you can do this. You can stop running.

You write a note to yourself. *I am here. I am sorry. I am afraid. And I am still here.*

You fold the note. You do not put it in the drawer. You put it in your pocket.

You stand up. You walk to the door. You open it. The hallway is dark. The light from the kitchen spills out into the corridor. You step out into the light.

You do not look back. You do not need to. The past is not a prison. It is a lesson. And you have learned it.

You walk down the stairs. You put on your shoes. You put on your coat. You open the front door. The air is cold and damp. It hits your face like a slap. You breathe it in. You taste it. It is iron and rain. It is real.

You step out into the street. The world is wide and open. It is terrifying. It is beautiful. You are afraid. But you are not numb. And that is enough. That is everything.

You begin to walk. You do not know where you are going. But you are moving. You are alive. And for the first time in three years, you are present.

The sun begins to break through the clouds. It is a thin, pale light. But it is there. And you are there. And that is enough.