The mud on your left kneecap is cracked like old porcelain, a white fissure running through the dark earth. You are kneeling in the trench, the rain a cold needle against your exposed neck, and you are counting the seconds. One. Two. Three. The air tastes of ozone and rust. Your companion, Silas, is three yards to your right, his head bowed over a map that is slowly dissolving in the drizzle. He does not look up. He never looks up now. He treats the map as if it were a living thing, a pet he is trying to soothe.

"Silas," you say. Your voice is a dry leaf scraping against stone.

He does not answer. He runs a thumb over the contour lines, smoothing the paper.

"Silas. The order changed."

He finally lifts his head. His eyes are red-rimmed, the whites stark against the grey of his face. He looks at you, then at the sky, then back at you. There is no anger in his face. There is only a terrible, heavy fatigue, as if he has been carrying a stone in his chest for a century.

"I know," he whispers.

"You know," you repeat. The words feel foreign in your mouth.

"The General believes we are the source of the plague," Silas says. He folds the map. The paper cracks. "He believes our bodies are the vector. The rot. The thing that spreads."

You blink. The rain drips from your brow. You look at your own hands. They are steady. They are clean. They are the hands of a man who has served for twenty years. They are not rotting. They are not the plague.

"We are not the plague, Silas."

"Are we not?" He stands up. The mud sucks at his boots. "We are the ones who stayed. We are the ones who did not flee. The General thinks that staying is a symptom. That loyalty is the disease."

This is the misunderstanding. It is a jagged thing, sharp and bright. It sits between you and the command structure, between you and the world. You have always known that trust is a fragile architecture. You have always known that a single misread signal can collapse the whole structure. But you did not know it would be this. You did not know that your very presence, your steadfastness, your refusal to break, would be interpreted as a threat.

"The General is wrong," you say.

"Perhaps," Silas says. "Or perhaps he is right about the shape of us, even if he is wrong about the name."

He turns to walk toward the rear of the trench, toward the communication wire that hums with the low, static-laden voice of the command. You watch him go. His gait is uneven. His left leg drags slightly. A wound from the skirmish yesterday. You had bandaged it. You had pressed the cloth tight, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your fingers. You had told him he would heal. He had nodded. He had not believed you.

You should follow him. You should go with him. You should be at his side, sharing the weight of the accusation. But your feet are planted in the mud. You are a soldier. Soldiers do not run. Soldiers do not doubt. And yet, the doubt is a living thing in your throat, a black bird beating its wings.

You look at your knee again. The crack in the skin is widening. A small bead of blood wells up. You touch it. It is warm. It is real. You are not a ghost. You are not a myth. You are a man with a cracked knee and a failing heart and a friend who is walking away into the dark.

The rain intensifies. It drums on the canvas above you. The world narrows to the width of the trench. The sky is a sheet of grey iron.

Silas reaches the wire. He stops. He does not pick up the receiver. He stands there, his back to you, his silhouette thin and broken against the gloom. He raises his hand. It is a small gesture. A wave. A farewell.

You do not wave back. You cannot move. You are frozen in the mud, a statue of obedience.

He walks away. The sound of his boots in the mud is the only sound in the world. It is a rhythmic, muffled thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. It fades into the distance. It fades into the rain. It fades into nothing.

You are alone.

The silence is absolute. It is a physical weight, pressing against your eardrums. You breathe in. The air is cold. You breathe out. The air is warm. You are the only warm thing in the cold world.

You look at your hands again. They are still clean. They are still steady. But they feel distant. They feel like they belong to someone else. Someone who is not you. Someone who is not here.

You stand up. Your knee cracks. The pain is a sharp, bright line. You ignore it. You walk to the wire. You pick up the receiver. It is heavy. It is cold. You hold it to your ear.

Static. A hiss. A low, electronic hum.

"Command," you say. Your voice is steady. "This is Private Miller. Reporting for duty."

A pause. Then, a voice. It is calm. It is precise. It is the voice of the General.

"Private Miller. You are to remain at your post. You are to wait for orders. Do not move. Do not speak. Do not exist, if you can help it."

The line goes dead.

You stand in the trench. The rain continues to fall. It soaks through your uniform. It soaks into your bones. You are wet. You are cold. You are alone.

You look at the crack in your knee. The blood has dried. It is a dark, thin line. A scar. A mark of what was. A mark of what is.

You sit down. You put your back against the dirt wall of the trench. The earth is cold and damp. It is alive. It is breathing. You press your back into it. You feel the pulse of the ground. It is slow. It is steady. It is the pulse of the world.

You close your eyes. You listen.

The rain is a song. It is a lullaby. It is a eulogy.

You think of Silas. You think of his face. You think of his red-rimmed eyes. You think of the map he was holding. You think of the words he said. *We are the ones who stayed.*

You were wrong. You were wrong to think that staying was a virtue. You were wrong to think that loyalty was a strength. You were wrong to think that trust was a foundation.

Trust is a illusion. It is a trick of the light. It is a shadow cast by the sun. When the sun moves, the shadow moves. When the sun disappears, the shadow vanishes.

You are a shadow. You are a ghost. You are a mistake.

The rain continues to fall. It washes the mud from your face. It washes the blood from your knee. It washes the world clean.

You open your eyes. The sky is still grey. The trench is still dark. You are still here.

You are not the plague. You are not the rot. You are not the disease.

You are just a man. You are just a man in a trench, waiting for an order that will never come. You are just a man with a cracked knee and a broken heart.

You are just a man.

And that is enough.

The rain falls. The mud holds. The silence sings.

You are here.

You are here.

You are here.