The window shatters. Glass rains down like snow. You freeze. Your breath stops in your throat. The noise is not a sound. It is a physical blow. It hits your chest. You are in the basement. The cellar is small. The walls are damp. The air tastes of mold and old paper. You do not move. You are a statue. You are stone.

The door opens. Light floods in. It is blinding. You squint. A figure stands in the frame. He is tall. He wears a grey coat. He is soaked. Rain drips from his hair. It pools at his feet. He looks at you. His eyes are dark. They are voids. You do not know his name. You do not know why he is here. You only know he is not supposed to be here.

He steps inside. The door slams behind him. The cold rushes in. It bites your skin. You shiver. You cannot stop. Your hands are shaking. They tremble violently. You look down. Your fingers are stained. The ink is black. It is dry. You are a scholar. You study texts. You decode languages. You find meaning in dead words. You are safe here. You are hidden. Or so you thought.

He walks toward you. His shoes squeak on the concrete. The sound is sharp. It echoes. He stops three feet away. He does not speak. He looks at your hands. He looks at your face. You look at the floor. You cannot meet his eyes. You feel a heat rise in your neck. It burns. It is shame. It is fear. It is both.

You know who he is. You have seen his face in the papers. You have read his name in the headlines. He is the enemy. He is the one who ordered the strikes. He is the one who sent the soldiers. He is the one who destroyed the library. He is the one who took your home. You are the one who survived. You are the one who stayed. You are the one who wrote. You wrote about him. You wrote the truth. You wrote the lies. You do not remember which was which anymore.

He reaches into his coat. You flinch. You think it is a gun. Your heart hammers. It hits your ribs. It wants to escape. It wants to run. You cannot run. There is nowhere to go. The basement is a trap. The walls are high. The stairs are steep. You are cornered.

He pulls out a book. It is thick. The cover is red. It is worn. The spine is cracked. He holds it out. He offers it to you. You do not take it. You stare at it. It is your book. Your manuscript. The one you lost. The one you burned. Or so you told yourself. You told yourself it was gone. You told yourself you forgot. You were wrong.

He sets it on the table. The table is wobbly. The book slides. It stops near the edge. He sits down. He lowers himself into the chair. The wood creaks. He looks tired. He looks old. He is not young. He is not strong. He is a man. He is a body. He is flesh and bone. He is failing.

You look at the book. The red cover is familiar. It is bright. It is ugly. It is beautiful. You reach out. Your hand hovers. You pull it back. You cannot touch it. It is a mine. It is a bomb. It is a ghost.

He speaks. His voice is low. It is rough. It is like gravel.

"You wrote it," he says.

You nod. You cannot speak. Your throat is closed. A lock is on it. A key is missing.

"I read it," he says.

You flinch. You look up. His eyes are steady. He does not blink. He is watching you. He is waiting.

"It was good," he says.

The words hit you. They are soft. They are hard. They are both. You feel a crack in your chest. It widens. Light comes through. It is not sunlight. It is something else. It is truth.

"Why are you here?" you ask. Your voice is a whisper. It is thin. It is dry.

He does not answer. He looks at the book. He looks at you. He smiles. It is a small smile. It is sad. It is real.

"I am not here for the book," he says.

"Then why?"

He stands up. He moves to the corner. He picks up a cloth. It is white. It is dirty. He wipes his hands. He is cleaning them. He is removing the rain. He is removing the cold. He is removing himself.

"I am here for the watch," he says.

You look at your wrist. The watch is there. It is gold. It is heavy. It is your father’s. It was given to you. It was a gift. It was a promise. It was a lie. You have worn it for ten years. It has never stopped. It has never failed. It is your anchor. It is your proof. It is your self.

He points to it. His finger is long. It is pale. It is cold.

"Give it to me," he says.

You shake your head. You pull your arm back. You curl your fingers. You hide the watch. You hide the gold. You hide the time.

"Please," he says.

It is the first time you have heard him beg. It breaks you. It breaks the room. It breaks the air. You feel a pull. It is not physical. It is spiritual. It is instinctual. It is primal. You want to give it to him. You want to let it go. You want to be free of the weight. You want to be free of the time. You want to be free of him.

You stand up. Your legs are weak. They shake. You walk toward him. You are a dancer. You are a fool. You are a victim. You hold out your hand. You open your palm. You remove the watch. It is warm. It is alive. It ticks. It beats. It is a heart.

You place it on the table. It sits next to the book. The gold shines. The red glows. They are a pair. They are a match. They are a story.

He takes it. He holds it. He looks at it. He does not put it on. He holds it in his hand. He closes his fingers. He crushes it. You watch. You do not stop him. You do not want to stop him. You want it to end. You want the sound. You want the break.

He opens his hand. The watch is broken. The face is cracked. The hands are bent. The glass is shattered. The gold is twisted. It is useless. It is dead. It is a thing. It is no longer time. It is no longer value. It is no longer you.

He drops it. It hits the table. It bounces. It settles. It is silent. The ticking is gone. The noise is gone. The world is quiet.

He looks at you. He is done. He turns. He walks to the door. He opens it. The rain is still falling. The light is still there. He steps out. The door closes. The cold returns. The silence returns.

You are alone. You are in the basement. You are in the dark. You are in the past.

You look at the table. The book is there. The red cover is bright. It is ugly. It is beautiful. You look at the broken watch. The gold is dull. The glass is sharp. It is a mirror. It is a lie. It is a truth.

You realize you do not know who you are. You do not know what you are. You do not know what you did. You do not know what he did. You do not know if you loved him. You do not know if you hated him. You do not know if it mattered. You do not know if anything matters.

You sit down. You are tired. You are empty. You are full. You are nothing. You are everything.

You pick up the book. You open it. The pages are soft. They are dry. They are warm. You read the first line. You read the last line. You read the middle. You read it all. You read it again. You read it a third time. You memorize it. You erase it. You forget it.

You close the book. You put it down. You stand up. You walk to the stairs. You climb them. One step. Two steps. Three steps. You do not count. You do not think. You do not feel. You are a ghost. You are a shadow. You are a breath.

You reach the top. You are in the kitchen. The kitchen is empty. The sink is dry. The stove is cold. The window is broken. The glass is gone. The rain is on the floor. It is on the table. It is on your face.

You look out the window. The city is dark. The lights are off. The streets are empty. The war is over. The war is never over. The war is inside. The war is you.

You walk to the door. You open it. You step out. You walk into the rain. You do not run. You do not hide. You do not look back. You walk. You walk until your feet bleed. You walk until your mind clears. You walk until you forget your name. You walk until you forget the watch. You walk until you forget the book. You walk until you forget him. You walk until you forget yourself.

You stop. You are in a field. The grass is tall. It is wet. It is cold. It is green. It is alive. You stand in the middle. You are small. You are nothing. You are free.

The rain stops. The clouds break. The moon comes out. It is bright. It is white. It is cold. It is beautiful. You look up. You see the stars. They are far. They are near. They are there. They are gone.

You close your eyes. You feel the wind. It is soft. It is cold. It is kind. It is cruel. It is life. It is death. It is time. It is no time.

You open your eyes. You are still there. You are still you. You are still broken. You are still whole. You are still here.

You turn around. You walk back. You walk home. You do not know where home is. You do not know if you have one. You do not know if you want one. You walk. You walk. You walk.

The gold is gone. The book is gone. The watch is gone. The man is gone. The war is gone. The pain is gone. The trust is gone. The misunderstanding is gone.

You are left with nothing. You are left with everything. You are left with the truth. The truth is simple. The truth is hard. The truth is free.

You smile. It is a small smile. It is sad. It is real. It is yours.

You are alive. You are here. You are now.

The end.