The rain hit the window. It was a steady, grey drumming. It did not stop.

Mara sat at the table. Her hands were still. They were not trembling. They had not trembled in days.

The room was small. The walls were bare. The air smelled of dust and old wood. It smelled of waiting.

On the table lay the object. It was a box. It was made of iron. It was cold to the touch.

It was not a box. It was a heart.

It was her heart.

She had taken it out. She had cut it free. The surgeons had done the work. The men in white coats. They had opened her chest. They had found the organ. They had lifted it out. It had beaten on the tray. It had pulsed. It had lived.

They had put it in the box. They had sealed the box. They had given it to her.

Take it, they said. It is yours. You are free.

She had taken it.

Now it sat before her. It was quiet. It was still.

Mara looked at it. She knew what it was. She had always known. The voice in her head had told her. It had whispered for years. It had grown loud. It had become a scream. It had become a command.

Give it up, the voice said.

Who to, she asked.

To the enemy.

The enemy was the man across the room. He was not there. He was in the war. He was in the trench. He was in the fire. He was the violence. He was the death.

He was also the man who had left her. He was the man who had taken her child. He was the man who had broken her.

She did not hate him. Not anymore. She had passed that stage. Hating was easy. Hating was warm. Hating was safe.

This was cold. This was the end.

The rain hit the window.

She picked up the box. It was heavy. It was not heavy. It was light. It was the weight of nothing. It was the weight of everything.

She opened the door. The hallway was dark. The light from the street lamp cut a thin line across the floor.

She walked out.

The city was sleeping. The streets were wet. The reflections were broken.

She walked to the square. It was empty. The statues stood in the rain. They were wet. They were cold. They were stone.

She saw him.

He was standing by the fountain. He was not there. He was a memory. He was a ghost. He was the shape of the man who had been.

She stopped. Her feet did not move.

The voice spoke again.

Finish it.

She looked at the box. She looked at the ghost.

She thought of her husband. He was dead. He had died in the war. He had died before she had taken the heart. He had died because of the war. He had died because of the violence.

He had loved her. It was instinct. It was primal. It was beyond reason. He had loved her with a fire that burned. He had loved her until the end.

She had loved him back. It was the same fire. It was the same burn.

Now it was gone.

She walked to the fountain. The water was clear. It was cold.

She opened the box. The heart was there. It was red. It was wet. It was alive.

She held it in her hands. It was warm.

She looked at the ghost. He looked at her. He did not speak. He did not need to. He knew.

She closed her eyes.

She thought of the war. She thought of the bombs. She thought of the blood. She thought of the screams.

She thought of the good people. She thought of the bad people. She thought of the lines between them.

The lines were gone.

The bad people did the good things. The good people did the bad things. It was a blur. It was a mess. It was a tragedy.

She opened her eyes.

She raised the heart.

She threw it.

It flew through the air. It was slow. It was graceful. It was a bird.

It landed in the fountain.

The water swallowed it.

It sank.

It was gone.

She stood there. She was empty. She was full.

The ghost faded. He was gone. He was part of the water. He was part of the stone. He was part of the rain.

She turned. She walked back to the room.

The room was the same. The table was the same. The chair was the same.

The box was on the table. It was empty.

She sat down.

She looked at the empty box.

She touched the iron. It was cold.

She did not feel anything. She did not feel pain. She did not feel relief. She did not feel joy.

She felt nothing.

This was the freedom.

The rain stopped. The sky was grey. The sun did not come out.

She waited.

She waited for the next thing.

She knew it would come.

She was ready.

She was the woman who had done it. She was the woman who had let go. She was the woman who had accepted the defeat.

She was not a hero. She was not a victim. She was a witness.

She had seen the truth. The truth was that there was no truth. The truth was that the heart was not hers. The truth was that the heart was not his. The truth was that the heart was the war.

She had destroyed the war.

Or she had destroyed the part of herself that held the war.

It was the same thing.

She closed her eyes.

She breathed in. The air was stale.

She breathed out. The air was gone.

She was still.

The room was still.

The world was still.

She had let go.

The object remained. The box remained. The iron remained.

It was constant. It was permanent.

It was the mirror.

It showed her what she was.

She was empty.

She was free.

She was alive.

The rain began again. It was a whisper. It was a kiss. It was a goodbye.

She did not move.

She did not speak.

She did not think.

She was.

The box sat on the table. It was cold. It was hard. It was real.

She looked at it.

She did not touch it.

She did not need to.

She knew it was there.

She knew she was there.

That was enough.

The light changed. The sun broke through the clouds. It was a thin beam. It hit the table. It hit the box.

The iron glinted.

It was beautiful.

It was ugly.

It was real.

She turned her face to the light.

She closed her eyes.

She was gone.

She was here.

The story ended.

The rain stopped.

The silence was loud.

The silence was quiet.

The silence was everything.

She sat in the silence.

She was the silence.

The box was the silence.

The world was the silence.

Nothing moved.

Nothing changed.

Nothing mattered.

Everything mattered.

She breathed.

The breath was in.

The breath was out.

The breath was life.

The breath was death.

The breath was the same.

She was the same.

The box was the same.

The rain was the same.

The war was the same.

The peace was the same.

It was all the same.

It was different.

It was one.

It was many.

It was nothing.

It was everything.

She smiled.

It was a small smile.

It was a sad smile.

It was a happy smile.

It was a true smile.

She was alive.

She was dead.

She was both.

She was neither.

She was the woman.

She was the box.

She was the heart.

She was the rain.

She was the silence.

She was the end.

She was the beginning.

The box sat on the table.

It was empty.

It was full.

It was hers.

It was not hers.

It was the truth.

The truth was simple.

The truth was hard.

The truth was cold.

The truth was warm.

The truth was the iron.

The truth was the rain.

The truth was the silence.

The truth was her.

She looked at the box.

She did not move.

She did not speak.

She did not think.

She was.

The light faded.

The dark came.

The dark was soft.

The dark was kind.

The dark was home.

She was home.

The box was home.

The world was home.

It was over.

It was just beginning.

It was the same.

It was different.

It was real.

It was fake.

It was the joke.

The distant joke.

The joke that was not a joke.

The joke that was the truth.

The joke that was the end.

The joke that was the life.

She laughed.

It was a small laugh.

It was a sad laugh.

It was a happy laugh.

It was a true laugh.

It was the end.

The rain stopped.

The silence remained.

The box remained.

She remained.

It was enough.

It was all.

It was nothing.

It was everything.

She was.

The box was.

The world was.

The end was.

The beginning was.

The same.

The different.

The real.

The fake.

The joke.

The truth.

The life.

The death.

The silence.

The noise.

The light.

The dark.

The rain.

The sun.

The heart.

The box.

The woman.

The man.

The war.

The peace.

The love.

The hate.

The fear.

The hope.

The end.

The beginning.

The same.

The different.

It was over.

It was just beginning.

She was alive.

She was dead.

She was both.

She was neither.

She was the silence.

She was the box.

She was the rain.

She was the truth.

She was the joke.

The distant joke.

The joke that was the end.

The joke that was the life.

The joke that was the truth.

The joke that was the silence.

The joke that was the rain.

The joke that was the box.

The joke that was the heart.

The joke that was the woman.

The joke that was the man.

The joke that was the war.

The joke that was the peace.

The joke that was the love.

The joke that was the hate.

The joke that was the fear.

The joke that was the hope.

The joke that was the end.

The joke that was the beginning.

The joke that was the same.

The joke that was the different.

The joke that was the real.

The joke that was the fake.

The joke that was the truth.

The joke that was the lie.

The joke that was the life.

The joke that was the death.

The joke that was the silence.

The joke that was the noise.

The joke that was the light.

The joke that was the dark.

The joke that was the rain.

The joke that was the sun.

The joke that was the heart.

The joke that was the box.

The joke that was the woman.

The joke that was the man.

The joke that was the war.

The joke that was the peace.

The joke that was the love.

The joke that was the hate.

The joke that was the fear.

The joke that was the hope.

The joke that was the end.

The joke that was the beginning.

The joke that was the same.

The joke that was the different.

It was over.

It was just beginning.

She was alive.

She was dead.

She was both.

She was neither.

She was the silence.

She was the box.

She was the rain.

She was the truth.

She was the joke.

The distant joke.