You wake up in the mud.

The cold is a weight. It presses on your chest. You gasp. The air tastes of iron. You sit up. Your head spins. You are in a field. The grass is tall. It sways in the wind. You do not know where you are. You do not know who you are.

Wait.

You know.

You are Thomas Bradshaw. You are a detective. You are in the field.

You stand. Your legs shake. You look down. You are wearing a uniform. It is dark blue. It is stained with dirt. There is a badge on your chest. It is silver. It is cold.

You touch it.

You remember.

You were chasing him. You were chasing the man. The man in the grey coat. He ran into the woods. You followed. Then you fell. Then you woke up here.

You look around. The field is empty. The sky is grey. The clouds are low. It looks like rain.

You start to walk. You walk toward the trees. You need to find the road. You need to get back to the station. You have a case. You have to finish it.

The case is simple. On the surface.

A man is dead. His name is Arthur Vance. He was a politician. He was a good man. Or so they said. He was found in his study. His throat was cut. There was no weapon. There was no sign of forced entry. The police said it was suicide.

You did not believe it.

You never believe the police.

You are the investigator. You are the one who looks closer. You look at the details. The details lie. People lie. But the details do not.

You reached the tree line. The trees are old. They are black against the grey sky. You step into the shade. It is darker here. It is colder.

You hear a sound.

A snap.

A twig breaking.

You freeze.

You draw your gun. Your hand is steady. You are trained. You are calm.

"Who is there?" you say.

Your voice is rough. It sounds like gravel.

No answer.

You move forward. You move slowly. You watch the branches. You watch the shadows.

You see a figure.

It is a man. He is sitting on a log. He is holding a cane. He is wearing a tweed suit. He is old. His hair is white. He is watching you.

"Put the gun down, Thomas," he says.

His voice is soft. It is clear.

You lower the gun.

"I know you," you say.

"I know you," he says. "I taught you. I was your mentor. I was Mr. Harrow."

You remember.

Edward Harrow. He was the best. He taught you how to see. He taught you how to think. He retired five years ago. He lives in the country.

"You are far from home, Edward," you say.

"I am where I need to be," he says.

You step closer. You look at his face. His eyes are blue. They are hard.

"Why are you here?" you ask.

"Because you are here," he says. "Because you are stuck."

You frown.

"Stuck?" you say.

"Yes. You are in a loop. You are going in circles. You are chasing a ghost."

"I am chasing a killer," you say.

"Are you?" he asks.

You do not answer.

"Think, Thomas," he says. "What do you know? What do you really know?"

You think. You remember the scene. The study. The body. The blood on the carpet. The open window. The rain.

"I know he was murdered," you say.

"Do you?" he says. "Or do you just believe it? Do you have proof?"

You do not have proof. You have suspicion. You have a feeling.

"The feeling is wrong," Harrow says.

"Who are you?" you ask.

"I am the mirror," he says.

You do not understand.

"Look at me," he says.

You look at him.

He looks like you. Not exactly. But there is something there. A resemblance. A shadow.

"You are me," he says.

"That is not possible," you say.

"Everything is possible," he says. "In this place. In this time. You are not a detective. You are a prisoner. You are trapped in the moment of the crime. You are reliving it. Over and over."

You feel a chill.

"You are lying," you say.

"Am I?" he asks. "Think. How many times have you been in this field? How many times have you woken up in the mud? How many times have you chased him into the woods?"

You try to remember.

You remember the mud. You remember the cold. You remember the snap of the twig.

You have been here before.

You have been here many times.

"I don't know," you say.

"You do," he says. "You just don't want to know. Because if you know, you have to stop. And you can't stop. You are obsessed. You are devoted to the truth. You think if you find the truth, you can save him. You can save Arthur Vance."

"I have to save him," you say.

"You can't," Harrow says. "He is dead. He has been dead for a long time. You are just a man who won't let go."

Anger rises in you. It is hot. It burns.

"You are a coward," you say. "You retired. You ran away. You let them take him. You did nothing."

Harrow does not flinch.

"I did what I had to do," he says.

You charge at him.

You tackle him. You hit him in the face. You punch him. He falls. He does not fight back. He rolls in the mud. He looks small.

You stand over him. You are breathing hard. Your hands are shaking.

"Look at you," he says. His voice is weak. "Look at what you have become."

You look at your hands. They are red. They are stained with blood.

Is it his blood?

Or is it yours?

You look at the ground. There is a pool of red. It is spreading.

You realize the truth.

You did not kill Arthur Vance.

You killed Harrow.

You killed your mentor. You killed the only person who cared about you. You did it in a fit of rage. You did it because he told you the truth. He told you it was over. He told you to let it go.

You could not let it go.

You ran. You ran into the woods. You ran into the field. And you woke up.

And you started again.

You are the killer. You are the victim. You are the detective.

The cycle is complete.

The rain starts to fall.

It is cold. It is relentless.

You look at Harrow. He is still. His eyes are closed.

You feel a pain. It is in your chest. It is deep. It is ancient.

You realize you have done this before. You have killed him before. You have woken up in the mud before.

You are trapped.

You are the prisoner of your own obsession.

You cannot escape.

You look at your gun. You hold it out.

You point it at your head.

You think about the end.

You think about the peace.

You pull the trigger.

The sound is loud. It echoes in the field.

You fall.

You hit the mud.

The pain is gone.

The cold is gone.

You close your eyes.

You wait.

You wake up in the mud.

The cold is a weight. It presses on your chest. You gasp. The air tastes of iron. You sit up. Your head spins. You are in a field. The grass is tall. It sways in the wind. You do not know where you are. You do not know who you are.

Wait.

You know.

You are Thomas Bradshaw. You are a detective. You are in the field.

You stand. Your legs shake. You look down. You are wearing a uniform. It is dark blue. It is stained with dirt. There is a badge on your chest. It is silver. It is cold.

You touch it.

You remember.

You were chasing him. You were chasing the man. The man in the grey coat. He ran into the woods. You followed. Then you fell. Then you woke up here.

You look around. The field is empty. The sky is grey. The clouds are low. It looks like rain.

You start to walk. You walk toward the trees. You need to find the road. You need to get back to the station. You have a case. You have to finish it.

You reach the tree line. The trees are old. They are black against the grey sky. You step into the shade. It is darker here. It is colder.

You hear a sound.

A snap.

A twig breaking.

You freeze.

You draw your gun. Your hand is steady. You are trained. You are calm.

"Who is there?" you say.

Your voice is rough. It sounds like gravel.

No answer.

You move forward. You move slowly. You watch the branches. You watch the shadows.

You see a figure.

It is a man. He is sitting on a log. He is holding a cane. He is wearing a tweed suit. He is old. His hair is white. He is watching you.

"Put the gun down, Thomas," he says.

His voice is soft. It is clear.

You lower the gun.

"I know you," you say.

"I know you," he says. "I taught you. I was your mentor. I was Mr. Harrow."

You remember.

Edward Harrow. He was the best. He taught you how to see. He taught you how to think. He retired five years ago. He lives in the country.

"You are far from home, Edward," you say.

"I am where I need to be," he says.

You step closer. You look at his face. His eyes are blue. They are hard.

"Why are you here?" you ask.

"Because you are here," he says. "Because you are stuck."

You frown.

"Stuck?" you say.

"Yes. You are in a loop. You are going in circles. You are chasing a ghost."

"I am chasing a killer," you say.

"Are you?" he asks.

You do not answer.

"Think, Thomas," he says. "What do you know? What do you really know?"

You think. You remember the scene. The study. The body. The blood on the carpet. The open window. The rain.

"I know he was murdered," you say.

"Do you?" he says. "Or do you just believe it? Do you have proof?"

You do not have proof. You have suspicion. You have a feeling.

"The feeling is wrong," Harrow says.

"Who are you?" you ask.

"I am the mirror," he says.

You do not understand.

"Look at me," he says.

You look at him.

He looks like you. Not exactly. But there is something there. A resemblance. A shadow.

"You are me," he says.

"That is not possible," you say.

"Everything is possible," he says. "In this place. In this time. You are not a detective. You are a prisoner. You are trapped in the moment of the crime. You are reliving it. Over and over."

You feel a chill.

"You are lying," you say.

"Am I?" he asks. "Think. How many times have you been in this field? How many times have you woken up in the mud? How many times have you chased him into the woods?"

You try to remember.

You remember the mud. You remember the cold. You remember the snap of the twig.

You have been here before.

You have been here many times.

"I don't know," you say.

"You do," he says. "You just don't want to know. Because if you know, you have to stop. And you can't stop. You are obsessed. You are devoted to the truth. You think if you find the truth, you can save him. You can save Arthur Vance."

"I have to save him," you say.

"You can't," Harrow says. "He is dead. He has been dead for a long time. You are just a man who won't let go."

Anger rises in you. It is hot. It burns.

"You are a coward," you say. "You retired. You ran away. You let them take him. You did nothing."

Harrow does not flinch.

"I did what I had to do," he says.

You charge at him.

You tackle him. You hit him in the face. You punch him. He falls. He does not fight back. He rolls in the mud. He looks small.

You stand over him. You are breathing hard. Your hands are shaking.

"Look at you," he says. His voice is weak. "Look at what you have become."

You look at your hands. They are red. They are stained with blood.

Is it his blood?

Or is it yours?

You look at the ground. There is a pool of red. It is spreading.

You realize the truth.

You did not kill Arthur Vance.

You killed Harrow.

You killed your mentor. You killed the only person who cared about you. You did it in a fit of rage. You did it because he told you the truth. He told you it was over. He told you to let it go.

You could not let it go.

You ran. You ran into the woods. You ran into the field. And you woke up.

And you started again.

You are the killer. You are the victim. You are the detective.

The cycle is complete.

The rain starts to fall.

It is cold. It is relentless.

You look at Harrow. He is still. His eyes are closed.

You feel a pain. It is in your chest. It is deep. It is ancient.

You realize you have done this before. You have killed him before. You have woken up in the mud before.

You are trapped.

You are the prisoner of your own obsession.

You cannot escape.

You look at your gun. You hold it out.

You point it at your head.

You think about the end.

You think about the peace.

You pull the trigger.

The sound is loud. It echoes in the field.

You fall.

You hit the mud.

The pain is gone.

The cold is gone.

You close your eyes.

You wait.

You wake up in the mud.