The road was mud.

Deep, black, sucking mud.

My boots were heavy.

Lead heavy.

The rain did not stop.

It never stops here.

It falls on the walls.

It falls on the dead.

It falls on me.

I am walking home.

Or I am walking away.

It is the same thing.

The gate was broken.

Wood splintered.

Like bone.

I pushed it open.

The hinges screamed.

A sound like a child.

I looked at my hands.

They were shaking.

Not from cold.

From fear.

The house was dark.

The windows were eyes.

Closed.

Empty.

I entered.

The smell hit me.

Dust.

Rot.

Old blood.

I knew this smell.

I had smelled it in the trench.

I had smelled it in the cell.

I am a man of the law.

Or I was.

Now I am a ghost.

Walking in a house that has forgotten my name.

I touched the wall.

The plaster crumbled.

Under it.

Wood.

Rotting wood.

The house is dying.

Like me.

I walked to the kitchen.

The table was bare.

No food.

No plates.

Just a single chair.

Upside down.

I looked at it.

I remembered the last time I sat there.

She was laughing.

She was young.

Her hair was dark.

Her eyes were bright.

She spoke of justice.

She spoke of duty.

She spoke of me.

I believed her.

I was a fool.

I am still a fool.

The floorboards creaked.

I moved.

Carefully.

I do not trust them.

They might break.

Like promises.

I reached the hallway.

The portrait hung there.

My father.

Stiff.

Dead.

He was a judge.

He wore black.

He held a gavel.

He looked down at me.

With judgment.

I looked away.

I could not meet his eyes.

He saw what I had done.

He saw what I had become.

I turned.

I went to the study.

The door was locked.

I had locked it.

Years ago.

I reached for the handle.

My fingers slipped.

The metal was cold.

I turned it.

The lock clicked.

A sound of finality.

I pushed the door open.

The room was small.

Smothering.

Books lined the walls.

Law books.

Thick.

Heavy.

They smelled of vanilla.

And decay.

I went to the desk.

My desk.

The leather was cracked.

The inkwell was dry.

I touched the surface.

Smooth.

Cold.

I sat down.

The chair groaned.

I looked at the mirror.

Above the desk.

The glass was clouded.

I saw a face.

Pale.

Thin.

Bearded.

It was not my face.

It was a stranger.

A traitor.

I reached for the glass.

My hand hovered.

I wanted to break it.

I wanted to shatter the reflection.

I wanted to end the lie.

My finger touched the surface.

The glass was cold.

Then.

A crack.

Small.

Fine.

Like a hair.

Running up the mirror.

I froze.

I did not move.

I did not breathe.

The crack spread.

It branched.

It split.

The reflection fractured.

My face broke into pieces.

Pieces.

Shards.

I saw a hundred me.

A thousand.

Each one different.

Each one guilty.

Each one lost.

The mirror shattered.

Not with a bang.

With a whisper.

A hiss.

The glass fell.

Tinkling on the floor.

A storm of diamonds.

I stared at the shards.

I picked up one.

It was sharp.

It cut my palm.

Blood welled up.

Red.

Bright.

I held the shard.

I looked at the blood.

I looked at the mirror.

The mirror was gone.

Only the frame remained.

Empty.

Black.

I dropped the shard.

It clattered.

I stood up.

My legs were weak.

I walked to the window.

I looked out.

The rain was still falling.

The yard was empty.

No one was coming.

No one was waiting.

I was alone.

I had always been alone.

I turned back.

The room was silent.

The books watched.

The dust settled.

I felt a pull.

In my chest.

A weight.

A stone.

I thought of the case.

The one that ended me.

The one that started me.

The trial.

The verdict.

The error.

I had been right.

The system was wrong.

But they did not care.

They wanted a villain.

I became the villain.

I was cast out.

I was forgotten.

But I remembered.

I remembered every detail.

Every word.

Every lie.

I had kept the files.

Hidden.

Safe.

In this house.

In this study.

I knew where they were.

I had known for years.

I had waited.

For the right moment.

For the right time.

Now.

The moment was now.

The time was now.

I moved to the wall.

The bookcase.

I looked for the book.

The red spine.

The title was blank.

I pulled it out.

It was heavy.

Not with words.

With paper.

I opened it.

The pages were thick.

Documents.

Letters.

Evidence.

Proof.

I held the truth.

In my hands.

I felt the weight of it.

It was not heavy.

It was light.

Feather light.

I looked at the door.

I knew what I had to do.

I had to send it.

I had to expose them.

I had to bring them down.

I was not a soldier.

I was not a cop.

I was a man.

A man with a secret.

A man with a past.

A man with a name.

I walked to the desk.

I wrote a letter.

My hand was steady.

The words were clear.

I named the names.

I listed the crimes.

I showed the corruption.

I showed the lie.

I sealed the envelope.

I put it in the book.

I put the book in the box.

I carried the box.

It was light.

I walked to the door.

I opened it.

The hallway was dark.

I walked out.

The house was silent.

I passed the kitchen.

The chair was still upside down.

I passed the portrait.

My father looked away.

I passed the mirror frame.

Empty.

I walked to the front door.

I pushed it open.

The rain hit my face.

Cold.

Wet.

I stepped out.

The gate was behind me.

I looked back.

The house stood there.

Dark.

Empty.

Dead.

I did not go back in.

I walked down the road.

The mud sucked at my boots.

The rain fell.

I walked.

I walked.

I walked.

The road was long.

The night was dark.

I was alone.

But I was free.

The truth was loose.

It was in the world.

It was in the mail.

It was in the hands of others.

I could not stop it.

I could not take it back.

I could only wait.

For the storm.

For the reckoning.

For the end.

I walked.

The stars came out.

Through the clouds.

Faint.

Distant.

They did not care.

They did not judge.

They just watched.

I walked.

My heart beat.

Steady.

Strong.

I was alive.

I was real.

I was here.

The mud was deep.

The rain was cold.

But I was warm.

Inside.

A fire.

Small.

Bright.

I carried it.

In my chest.

In my soul.

I walked on.

The night was endless.

The road was long.

I did not stop.

I would not stop.

Not until the end.

Not until the truth.

Not until justice.

I walked.

I walked.

I walked.

Into the dark.

Into the rain.

Into the night.

I was a ghost.

A man.

A soldier.

A witness.

I was all of them.

And none of them.

I was the shadow.

The silence.

The crack in the glass.

The blood on the palm.

The weight of the book.

The fire in the chest.

I walked.

The rain did not stop.

It never stops.

But I did.

I stood.

In the middle of the road.

I looked up.

The sky was open.

The stars were bright.

I closed my eyes.

I breathed.

In.

Out.

I felt the pain.

In my hand.

In my heart.

In my soul.

It was real.

It was mine.

I opened my eyes.

I walked on.

The road was endless.

The night was dark.

But I was not afraid.

I was not alone.

I was with the truth.

I was with the past.

I was with the future.

I was with myself.

I walked.

The mud was deep.

The rain was cold.

But I was warm.

I was free.

I was alive.

I was here.

I walked.

Into the dark.

Into the rain.

Into the night.

Into the storm.

Into the end.

I walked.