The rain hammered against the tin roof of the barracks. It was a cold, relentless sound. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood by the window. He watched the water run down the glass in long, jagged lines.

Captain Halloway walked in. He held a glass of brandy. The liquid swirled, dark and deep.

"You look tired, Thorne," Halloway said. His voice was soft. Too soft.

"I am," Thorne replied. He did not turn around.

"Sit down," Halloway commanded.

Thorne sat. The chair was hard wood. It bit into his bones.

"We have a situation," Halloway said. He poured a second glass. He set it on the desk. It clinked against the paper. "The border patrol reports movement. Unsanctioned. Illegal."

"Who?" Thorne asked.

"Does it matter?" Halloway smiled. It did not reach his eyes. "Just who is on the other side. It matters that they are here. It matters that they are not ours."

Thorne looked at the glass. The brandy trembled slightly. He thought of the cold. He thought of the mud. He thought of the men who had died in the trenches. He had not spoken their names. Not once.

"Orders, sir?" Thorne asked.

"Clear them out," Halloway said. "No questions. No witnesses. Just clear them out."

Thorne picked up the glass. He did not drink. He held it in his hand. The heat seeped into his palm.

"What about the children?" Thorne asked.

Halloway’s smile faded. "There are no children, Thorne. Only assets. And assets can be lost."

Thorne stood up. He felt a weight in his chest. It was not fear. It was something older. Something deeper.

"I have my uniform," Thorne said.

Halloway raised an eyebrow. "So you do. It fits well. Always did."

Thorne looked down at his tunic. The fabric was thick wool. It was the color of dried blood. It was tight across his shoulders. It was tight around his ribs. It was his skin. It was his breath. He had worn it for ten years. He had bled in it. He had sweated in it. It knew him better than he knew himself.

"Take it off," Halloway said.

Thorne froze. "What?"

"Take it off, Thorne. You are no longer a soldier. You are a civilian. And civilians do not wear the uniform of the state in the field. It is a violation of protocol. It is a threat to order."

Thorne looked at Halloway. The Captain’s face was smooth. Calm. He looked at Thorne like a man looking at a broken tool.

"I cannot," Thorne said.

"You can," Halloway said. "Or you will be court-martialed. For insubordination. For treason. The choice is yours."

Thorne looked at the door. It was heavy oak. It was locked from the outside. The handle was brass. It was cold to the touch.

He looked back at Halloway.

"Inspection," Halloway said. "Right now. Step out of the tunic."

Thorne’s hands trembled. He reached for the buttons. The first one was stuck. The wool had stretched. It had hardened. It had become part of him. He pulled. It resisted. He pulled harder. His knuckles turned white.

"Hurry up," Halloway said.

Thorne gasped. The air in the room was thin. He felt the fabric tearing. A small rip. Then another. The sound was sharp. It echoed in the silence.

He stepped out of the tunic.

He was naked. The air hit his skin. It was cold. It was shocking. He shivered. He looked down at his body. It was pale. It was marked with scars. Old scars. New scars. They were all there. But without the tunic, they were just marks. They were just skin.

He felt light. He felt empty.

Halloway nodded. "Better. Now you are who you are. Not what we made you."

Thorne stood there. Shaking. He looked at the tunic on the floor. It was a heap of gray wool. It looked dead.

Halloway walked to the window. He looked out at the rain.

"Go," Halloway said. "Leave. Take nothing. You have your freedom, Thorne. It is yours. Keep it."

Thorne walked to the door. His feet were bare. The floor was cold. He pushed the door open. The wind rushed in. It smelled of wet earth and smoke.

He stepped out.

The corridor was long. It was dark. The walls were stone. They were cold. He walked. He did not run. He did not look back.

He reached the gate. It was iron. It was rusted. He pushed it. It groaned. It opened.

He stepped into the yard. The rain fell on him. It soaked through his skin. It soaked into his bones.

He walked. He walked into the darkness.

The rain did not stop. It never stopped.

He walked for miles. The road was muddy. It was deep. He sank to his ankles. He pulled his feet out. He walked on.

He found a cave. It was small. It was dry. He crawled in. He curled up. He wrapped his arms around his knees.

He was cold. He was hungry. He was alone.

He closed his eyes.

He heard the sound of the rain. It was the only sound. It was steady. It was reliable.

He thought about the tunic. He thought about how it had felt. Warm. Safe. Strong.

He thought about how it had felt when he took it off.

He opened his eyes.

The cave was dark. He could see nothing.

He reached into his pocket. He had kept something. A small piece of metal. A button. It was from his tunic. It was brass. It was engraved.

He held it in his hand. It was cold.

He put it in his mouth. He bit down on it.

It tasted of copper. It tasted of metal. It tasted of blood.

He smiled.

He was free.

The rain continued to fall. It washed the dirt from his skin. It washed the mud from his feet. It washed the world away.

He lay there. He listened.

The silence was loud.

He was no one.

He was everyone.

He was the rain.

He was the stone.

He was the cold.

He was free.

And it hurt.

It hurt so much.

He lay there. He did not move. He did not breathe. He was still.

The rain fell.

The world turned.

He was gone.

He was here.

He was free.

The end.