You wake in the dark. The air tastes of iron and stale bread.

Your sister, Clara, is standing at the head of the bed. She holds a glass. The liquid inside is thick. It swallows the light.

Drink, she says.

Her voice is smooth. It is the voice of the department. It is the voice of the court. It is the voice you have heard for twenty years.

You do not move. You stare at the glass. The liquid trembles. It reflects your own face. Your face is older than you remember. The lines around your eyes are deep trenches. The eyes are hollow. They are the eyes of a man who has buried too many truths.

Why? you ask.

The system is broken, she says.

She sets the glass on the nightstand. The ceramic clicks against the wood. The sound is sharp. It cuts the silence.

You look at the liquid again. It is not poison. You know this. You have tasted it before. In the infirmary. In the quiet hours after the raid. It is a sedative. A heavy, black sleep. It is the end of the watch.

Clara sits on the edge of the bed. She does not look at you. She looks at the floor. Her hands are folded in her lap. They are steady. They are the hands of a surgeon. They are the hands of an architect.

I am tired, she says.

So are you, you think. But you do not say it. You are the officer. You are the shield. You do not complain.

The room is small. It is a guest room in your mother’s old house. The wallpaper is peeling. It is a floral pattern. Roses. They are dying. They are curling inward. They are like the petals of a bruise.

The clock on the mantel ticks. Tick. Tick. Tick.

It is a mechanical heart. It has no mercy. It counts down the seconds. It counts down the breaths.

Clara picks up the glass. She holds it out to you again.

Drink, she says.

It is not a request. It is an order. It is the last order you will receive.

You take the glass. Your hand shakes. The liquid ripples. The reflection of your face breaks. It shatters into a thousand shards. A thousand selves. A thousand choices.

You lift the glass to your lips.

The taste is bitter. It is the taste of ash. It is the taste of the soil where you buried the evidence. It is the taste of the blood you cleaned from your boots.

You drink.

The world blurs. The edges of the room soften. The roses on the wallpaper expand. They fill the space. They consume the light.

You fall.

You do not hit the floor. You fall into the dream.

The dream is the station.

It is night. The rain is falling. It is a cold, hard rain. It hits the pavement like gravel.

You are standing at your desk. The desk is oak. It is heavy. It is solid. It is the center of the universe.

The door opens.

It is not Clara. It is not a suspect. It is a man. He is tall. He is wearing a coat. The coat is dark. It is wet.

He walks in. He does not knock. He does not ask. He simply enters.

He places a file on your desk. The file is thick. It is red. It is marked Confidential.

You look up.

You know his face.

It is your face.

He is older. He is thinner. His hair is white. His eyes are red. They are wet. They are full of tears.

He sits down. He does not speak. He waits.

You wait.

The rain continues. It drums against the window. It is a rhythm. It is a pulse.

He opens the file. He takes out a photograph. He slides it across the desk.

It is a picture of you. You are young. You are smiling. You are holding a badge. The badge is shiny. It is new. It is clean.

He looks at you. He looks at the picture. He looks at you again.

This was you, he says.

Yes, you say.

This is what you became, he says.

No, you say.

He laughs. It is a dry sound. It is the sound of dead leaves.

You reach for the picture. You grab it. You pull it to your side.

The picture is cold. It is real. It is a piece of paper. It is a piece of truth.

He stands up. He walks to the door. He pauses. He looks back at you.

It is not too late, he says.

Then he leaves.

The door closes.

You are alone.

You look at the picture. You look at the badge. The badge is tarnished. It is dirty. It is stained with blood. It is stained with lies.

You drop the picture. It hits the desk. It slides. It falls to the floor.

You stand up. You walk to the window. You look out.

The rain is stopping. The clouds are breaking. The moon is coming out. The moon is pale. The moon is cold. The moon is a mirror.

You see your reflection in the glass.

You are not the man in the picture. You are not the man at the desk. You are the man in the dark. You are the man in the glass.

You are the exile.

You are the pale one.

You turn away from the window. You walk to the door. You open it.

The hallway is empty. The lights are off. The darkness is total.

You walk. You do not know where you are going. You do not know where you are.

You walk into the dark.

You wake.

You are in the bed. You are in the room. The wallpaper is peeling. The roses are dying.

Clara is standing at the head of the bed. She holds the glass. The liquid is still there. It is full. It has not been drunk.

You did not drink it.

You are sitting up. You are alert. Your eyes are open. Your mind is clear.

Clara looks at you. Her face is blank. Her eyes are cold.

You did not drink, she says.

No, you say.

She sets the glass on the nightstand. She turns away. She walks to the door.

She stops. She does not turn around.

You are still here, she says.

Yes, you say.

The system is broken, she says.

I know, you say.

She opens the door. The light from the hallway spills in. It is bright. It is harsh. It is the light of the day. It is the light of the world.

She steps out. The door closes.

You are alone.

You look at the glass. The liquid is still there. It is black. It is deep. It is a mirror.

You see your face.

You are not the exile. You are not the pale one.

You are the witness.

You are the memory.

You are the truth.

You stand up. Your legs are weak. Your body is heavy. But your mind is light.

You walk to the window. You open it. The air is cool. It is fresh. It smells of rain. It smells of earth. It smells of life.

You look out. The sun is rising. The light is golden. The light is warm. The light is real.

You see the street. You see the houses. You see the people. They are walking. They are living. They are breathing.

They do not know. They do not care. They do not see the blood. They do not see the lies. They do not see the truth.

But you see it.

You are the one who sees.

You are the one who remembers.

You are the one who sacrifices.

You sacrifice the sleep. You sacrifice the peace. You sacrifice the end.

You choose the burden. You choose the weight. You choose the watch.

It is a terrible choice. It is a heavy choice. It is a lonely choice.

But it is yours.

You close the window. You turn around. You walk to the door.

You open it.

The hallway is empty. The lights are on. The light is bright.

You step out.

You walk down the stairs. The wood creaks under your feet. The sound is loud. It is clear. It is real.

You reach the front door. You open it.

The world is waiting.

It is noisy. It is chaotic. It is alive.

You step out.

You breathe.

The air fills your lungs. It is cold. It is sharp. It is pure.

You walk into the street.

You do not look back.

You do not look down.

You look forward.

You are the officer. You are the shield. You are the wall.

You are the one who holds.

You are the one who stands.

You are the one who does not fall.

The sun is high. The shadows are short. The world is bright.

You are the shadow.

You are the dark.

You are the truth.

You walk.

You do not stop.

You do not turn.

You do not rest.

You are the exile.

You are the pale one.

You are the witness.

And you are free.