I am the only one awake.

The house breathes.

It is a large house. Old bones. Thick walls. The clock in the hall ticks. One, two, three, four. It sounds like a hammer on iron. I sit in the chair. I do not move. My hands are still. They rest on my knees. They are cold.

I am a soldier. Or I was. The uniform is gone. The rank is gone. But the silence stays. It sits on my chest. It is heavy. It is warm.

There is a knock at the door.

It is not a knock. It is a tap. Soft. Precise. Like a fingernail on glass. I know that sound. I have heard it before. In the trenches. In the cell. In the dream that will not end.

I do not answer.

The tap comes again.

I close my eyes.

I see him.

His face is blurred. His eyes are bright. He stands in the corridor. He wears a coat of gray wool. It is damp. Rain clings to the hem. He holds a box. It is small. It is dark. It is made of wood.

He does not speak.

He looks at me.

His mouth moves.

I cannot hear the words.

I open my eyes.

The room is empty.

The clock ticks.

I am alone.

I stand up.

My legs are stiff. The wood floor creaks under my feet. It sounds like a crack. I walk to the door. The handle is cold iron. I grip it. I do not turn it. I wait.

The silence stretches.

It pulls at me.

I think about the war. It was not long. It was not glorious. It was mud. It was blood. It was the smell of wet earth. We fought for nothing. We died for nothing. Or so they say.

I do not believe them.

I believe in the box.

I do not know what is in it. I know I must open it. I know I must keep it. I have held it for years. It is in my pocket. It is in my head. It is in my blood.

The tap comes again.

This time, it is louder.

I turn the handle.

The door opens.

The hallway is dark. The gas lamps are out. Only the moonlight spills in. It is pale. It is blue. It looks like water.

He is there.

He is taller than I remember. Or maybe I am smaller. I have shrunk. Time eats the body.

He smiles.

It is a sad smile.

He holds out the box.

I take it.

My hands shake.

The box is light. It feels like air. It feels like stone. I do not know.

He steps back.

He fades.

Not like a ghost. Like a memory. Like a stain on white cloth. He becomes the darkness. He becomes the night.

I close the door.

I lock it.

I go to the table.

I place the box on the wood.

The wood is oak. It is scarred. I have cut it with a knife. I have scratched my name into it. I have scratched her name into it.

I do not remember her name.

I only remember the face.

I look at the box.

There is a keyhole.

There is no key.

I reach into my pocket.

My fingers find it.

It is cold. It is small. It is made of bone. I do not know whose bone. I do not care.

I insert the key.

It turns.

It clicks.

The lid rises.

There is no light inside.

There is no shadow.

There is only the air.

The air smells of rain.

The air smells of iron.

I reach in.

My hand passes through.

It is like touching water.

It is like touching smoke.

I pull my hand out.

I hold nothing.

I hold everything.

I look at my hand.

It is trembling.

A drop of blood falls.

It hits the table.

It is red.

It is bright.

I look at the box.

It is empty.

It was always empty.

I understand.

I did not hold the prize.

I held the weight.

I held the burden.

I held the sin.

I close the box.

I put the key in my pocket.

I sit down.

The clock ticks.

One, two, three, four.

I am not alone.

I am with them.

They are in the walls.

They are in the floor.

They are in the air.

They are in my blood.

I am the keeper.

I am the gate.

I am the silence.

I do not open the door.

I do not speak.

I wait.

The night is long.

The night is deep.

The night is full of voices.

They whisper.

They call my name.

I do not answer.

I am still.

I am strong.

I am the wall.

I am the stone.

I am the silence that holds the storm.

I do not break.

I do not yield.

I hold.

I hold.

I hold.

The dawn comes.

It is gray.

It is cold.

The light creeps in.

It touches the box.

The box is still.

The box is empty.

I am full.

I am full of them.

I am full of the past.

I am full of the pain.

I am full of the love.

I love them.

I love the silence.

I love the weight.

I love the cycle.

It will come again.

The knock.

The tap.

The face.

The box.

The key.

The blood.

The silence.

It will come again.

And again.

And again.

I will be here.

I will be ready.

I will hold.

I will hold.

I will hold.

The clock ticks.

One, two, three, four.

I am the silence.

I am the end.

I am the beginning.

I am the wheel.

I turn.

I turn.

I turn.

The house breathes.

I breathe with it.

We are one.

We are still.

We are forever.

The sun rises.

It burns.

It is bright.

It is harsh.

I close my eyes.

I see the dark.

I see the face.

I see the box.

I see the key.

I see the blood.

I see the silence.

I open my eyes.

The room is empty.

The box is on the table.

It is closed.

It is locked.

I am alone.

I am not alone.

I am the silence.

I am the keeper.

I am the soldier.

I stand up.

I walk to the window.

I look out.

The world is moving.

Cars. People. Life.

It is loud.

It is fast.

It is far away.

I am here.

I am still.

I am the stone.

I am the wall.

I am the silence.

I turn back.

I look at the box.

I smile.

It is a sad smile.

It is a true smile.

I pick up the box.

I hold it to my chest.

It is light.

It is heavy.

I am ready.

The knock comes.

I do not flinch.

I do not fear.

I answer.

I am the silence.

I am the end.

I am the beginning.

I turn.

I turn.

I turn.