The feast was not of food, but of light.

You sit at the long table. The wood is pale. It smells of sap and rain. Around you, the others eat. They do not chew. They absorb. The air is thick. It hums. You are a guard. You wear the grey. The grey is old. The grey is worn. The threads are thin. You feel them on your skin. They are part of you. You are the grey.

The room is vast. There are no walls. Only the light. It pours from above. It is white. It is endless. You look at your hands. They are steady. They are strong. They are yours. Or so you think.

A voice speaks. It comes from everywhere. It is soft. It is kind. It is wrong.

"Stay," it says.

You stay. You always stay. This is your duty. This is your purpose. The light is the truth. The shadow is the lie. You are the shield against the shadow. You do not question. You do not doubt. You are the vessel. You are the tool. The tool does not think. The tool does not feel. The tool only endures.

You watch the others. They are young. They are bright. They are fading. One by one, they dissolve. Their faces blur. Their voices fade. They become light. They join the hum. It is peaceful. It is quiet. It is death.

You do not look away. You cannot look away. Your eyes are fixed on the table. Your hands are folded. You are waiting. You are enduring. The grey tightens. It squeezes your chest. It squeezes your throat. You breathe through it. You have learned to breathe through it.

A shadow falls across the table.

It is small. It is dark. It is real. It has weight. It has shape. It is a man. He stands at the edge of the light. He wears no grey. He wears nothing. He is naked. He is whole. He is you.

You stand. Your legs are stiff. Your joints crack. The sound is loud in the silence. The hum stops. The light dims. The others freeze. They are statues now. They are made of ice.

The man looks at you. He smiles. It is a sad smile. It is a tired smile. He knows you. You know him. He is the part of you that you cut away. He is the part of you that you burned. He is the part of you that felt.

"Get out," you say.

Your voice is rough. It is dry. It is the sound of stone on stone.

"No," he says. His voice is clear. It is the sound of water. "You are out."

You move. You are fast. You are strong. You are the guard. You step toward him. The light pushes back. It burns. It stings. It tries to erase you. But you are solid. You are heavy. You are the anchor.

He does not move. He does not defend himself. He stands still. He looks at you with pity. He looks at you with love. It is a primal love. It is a blind love. It is the love of the wolf for the cub. It is the love of the root for the tree. It is the love that knows no reason. It is the love that demands no return.

You raise your hand. Your fist is tight. Your knuckles are white. You are ready. You are the law. You are the order. You are the grey.

You strike.

The blow lands. It is solid. It is real. Pain flares in your fist. It is warm. It is wet. It is life. You have never felt pain like this before. It is sharp. It is clear. It is yours.

He falls. He hits the ground. The ground is soft. It is moss. It is earth. It is real.

The light screams. It is a high sound. It is a thin sound. It is the sound of tearing silk. The room shakes. The table cracks. The statues shatter. The light floods in. It is blinding. It is hot. It is angry.

You stand over him. He is breathing. He is alive. He looks up at you. His eyes are dark. His eyes are deep. They are the eyes of the sea. They are the eyes of the night. They are the eyes of the truth.

"Why?" he asks.

You do not answer. You do not know. You do not care. You are the guard. You are the shield. You are the grey.

The light closes in. It wraps around you. It is cold. It is hard. It is iron. It binds your arms. It binds your legs. It binds your head. You cannot move. You cannot speak. You can only watch.

The man rises. He is slow. He is graceful. He walks toward the edge of the light. He walks toward the dark. He does not look back. He does not hesitate. He steps into the shadow.

And then, he is gone.

The light remains. It is still. It is silent. It is empty.

You are alone.

You are the guard. You are the shield. You are the grey.

But the grey is thin. The threads are frayed. The fabric is weak. You feel it. You feel the wear. You feel the tear. You feel the end.

You try to move. You try to walk. Your legs do not obey. Your arms do not lift. You are frozen. You are stuck. You are trapped in the light.

You look at your hands. They are fading. They are becoming light. They are becoming nothing.

You remember.

You remember the rain. You remember the smell of the earth. You remember the taste of the bread. You remember the warmth of the sun. You remember the touch of another hand. You remember the sound of a voice. You remember the pain. You remember the love.

You remember yourself.

You are not the grey. You are not the shield. You are not the tool.

You are the man. You are the one who felt. You are the one who burned. You are the one who chose.

You chose the light. You chose the order. You chose the safety. You chose the end.

You chose to die.

The light grows brighter. It is so bright. It is so white. It is so clean. It is so pure.

You close your eyes. You do not fight it. You do not resist it. You let it in. You let it take you. You let it erase you.

You are the ash. You are the dust. You are the memory.

The room is empty. The table is gone. The statues are gone. The light is gone.

There is only the dark.

There is only the silence.

There is only you.

You are small. You are weak. You are afraid.

But you are real.

You open your eyes.

You are on the ground. The ground is hard. It is cold. It is wet. It is mud.

You are in a field. The sky is grey. The clouds are low. The air is heavy. It smells of rain. It smells of iron.

You are in a trench. The walls are high. The mud is deep. It is up to your knees.

You look around. You are not alone.

There are others. They are in the mud. They are in the grey. They are the same grey you wore. They are the same grey you were.

They are fighting.

They are fighting the light.

The light is coming. It is in the sky. It is in the clouds. It is in the air. It is a wall of white. It is a wave of heat. It is a tide of erasure.

The men are shooting. The guns are loud. The smoke is thick. The mud is flying. They are fighting for their lives. They are fighting for their souls.

You stand. Your legs are strong. Your arms are heavy. You feel the weight of the gun in your hands. It is cold. It is solid. It is real.

You look at the men. They are young. They are brave. They are afraid. They are you.

You look at the light. It is beautiful. It is terrible. It is the truth.

You know what you must do.

You know what you chose.

You know what it cost.

You raise your gun. You aim. You breathe.

You shoot.

The bullet flies. It is fast. It is true. It is yours.

It hits the light.

The light does not break. The light does not fade. The light grows. It swells. It expands. It takes the sky. It takes the field. It takes the men.

One by one, they fall. They do not die. They dissolve. They become light. They join the hum.

You are the last.

You stand in the mud. You are the last.

The light is close. It is warm. It is gentle. It is kind.

"Stay," it says.

You do not stay.

You do not fight.

You do not run.

You sit down.

You sit in the mud. You sit in the grey. You sit in the truth.

You close your eyes.

You let it in.

You let it take you.

You are the ash. You are the dust. You are the memory.

The mud dries. The wind blows. The light fades.

There is only the silence.

There is only the peace.

There is only you.