The train cut through the fog. It was a grey, wet morning in November. The air smelled of coal and wet wool. Thomas Bradshaw sat in the corner. His knees were apart. His hands rested on his thighs. They were large hands. The hands of a man who worked with his body. He was a sergeant. He had served twenty years. His uniform was pressed. It was dark blue. It fit him well.

He was going to the depot. It was an old building. Brick and iron. It stood on the edge of the city. The city was loud. The depot was quiet. That was the point. It was a place for men to rest. Or to die. They did not say that. They said it was a place for recovery.

Thomas looked at the window. The glass was dirty. Rain slid down it. He watched the drops. One drop joined another. They ran together. They disappeared.

A woman sat across from him. She was old. Her hair was white. She held a small bag. The bag was brown leather. It was worn soft. She looked at Thomas. She did not smile. Her face was flat.

"Are you going to the depot?" she asked.

Her voice was thin. It was like dry leaves.

"Yes," Thomas said.

"I was going there too."

"Are you a nurse?"

"No. I am a visitor."

"Who are you visiting?"

She did not answer. She looked out the window. The track blurred. The trees passed by. They were black shapes. They had no leaves.

Thomas felt a pull. It was in his chest. It was not pain. It was a weight. He thought of his wife. Her name was Margaret. She was in the city. She was not in the depot. She was in their house. The house was cold. The fire was low.

He closed his eyes. He remembered her face. It was pale. It was tired. She had been sick for months. The doctors said it was the air. They said the city was bad for her. They said she needed fresh air. They said she needed time.

Time.

The train stopped. The brakes screamed. It was a sharp sound. It cut through the silence.

Thomas stood up. He picked up his bag. It was heavy. He walked to the door. The woman was still there. She did not move.

"Good luck," she said.

"Thank you."

He stepped onto the platform. The air hit him. It was cold. It bit his skin. He pulled his coat tighter.

The depot was large. It had high ceilings. The beams were black. The floor was stone. It echoed. Thomas walked through the main hall. He saw men. They sat on benches. They wore grey shirts. They looked down. They did not speak.

He found the desk. It was wood. It was dark. A man sat behind it. He had a thick neck. His face was red.

"Sergeant Bradshaw," the man said. He did not look up. He was writing. "You are late."

"The train was delayed."

"It is always delayed."

"Where is my room?"

"East wing. Second floor. Room 104."

Thomas nodded. He walked away. He climbed the stairs. The stairs were steep. His legs burned. He reached the top. The hallway was long. It was empty.

He found room 104. He turned the key. The door opened.

The room was small. It had a bed. The bed was made. It had a white sheet. It was stiff. There was a chair. It was wooden. There was a table. It was bare.

Thomas put his bag on the chair. He sat on the bed. The mattress was hard. It did not give.

He looked at the wall. There was a crack. It ran from the floor to the ceiling. It was thin. It was like a vein.

He took out his watch. It was gold. It was old. It belonged to his father. He wound it. The sound was tick. Tick. Tick.

He looked at the door. It was closed.

He heard a knock.

It was soft. It was three knocks.

Thomas stood up. He walked to the door. He opened it.

A boy stood there. He was young. He was maybe sixteen. He wore a grey shirt. Like the others. But his shirt was clean. It was new.

"Sergeant?" the boy said.

"Yes."

"I am here to help you."

"Help me with what?"

"With the work."

"What work?"

The boy did not answer. He looked at Thomas. His eyes were dark. They were wet.

"I am new," the boy said.

Thomas looked at him. He saw the fear. It was in the boy's hands. The hands were shaking.

"Come in," Thomas said.

The boy entered. He closed the door.

They stood in the room. The silence was heavy.

"I don't understand," Thomas said. "Why am I here?"

The boy sat on the bed. He put his hands in his lap.

"You are tired," the boy said.

"I am not tired. I am a sergeant. I have duties."

"You have no duties here."

Thomas felt angry. It was a hot anger. It rose in his throat.

"This is a joke," he said.

"It is not a joke."

"Who is in charge?"

"Mr. Ashworth."

Thomas knew the name. It was the superintendent. He was a quiet man. He liked order. He liked rules.

"Get me Ashworth," Thomas said.

"I cannot."

"Why not?"

"He is not here."

"Where is he?"

"He is in the city."

Thomas laughed. It was a dry laugh. It had no joy.

"He is always in the city," Thomas said.

"He is never here."

Thomas looked at the boy. He saw the truth. It was simple. It was cruel.

They were alone.

The sun went down. The light in the room faded. The shadows grew. Thomas sat in the chair. He watched the boy. The boy slept. He slept with his eyes open.

Thomas took out a match. He struck it. The flame was blue. It was short. He lit the candle. It was on the table. The light was small. It shook.

He thought of Margaret. He thought of the house. He thought of the fire.

He picked up the candle. He walked to the window. He opened it. The wind came in. The candle died.

The room was dark.

He heard a sound. It was outside. It was a footstep. Then another. They were slow. They were heavy.

Thomas went to the door. He opened it.

A man stood in the hall. He was tall. He wore a black coat. He had a beard. It was white.

"Bradshaw," the man said.

"Who are you?"

"I am the doctor."

"I did not ask for a doctor."

"You will need one."

"I am healthy."

The man smiled. It was a sad smile.

"Are you?"

Thomas felt cold. It was inside him. It was in his bones.

"What do you want?"

"I want to talk."

"I have nothing to say."

"Then listen."

The man entered the room. He did not sit. He stood by the window.

"You are a good man," the man said.

"I am a soldier."

"Soldiers die. Men live."

"I am alive."

"Are you?"

Thomas looked at the man. He saw the eyes. They were kind. They were pitying.

"Get out," Thomas said.

The man did not move.

"Your wife is dying," the man said.

Thomas felt a shock. It was like a blow.

"Who told you that?"

"I know things."

"Get out."

"I cannot."

The man walked to the bed. He sat down. He looked at Thomas.

"She is in pain," the man said.

Thomas felt weak. His legs shook. He sat on the chair.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean she is suffering."

"Stop it."

"I am telling you the truth."

Thomas looked at the floor. He saw the crack in the wall. It was still there.

"Why are you here?" Thomas asked.

"To help."

"Help me how?"

"By letting go."

Thomas laughed. It was a broken sound.

"Let go of what?"

"Of the fight."

"I am not fighting."

"You are always fighting. You fight the world. You fight the men. You fight the pain."

"I fight to win."

"You cannot win."

Thomas looked at the man. He saw the truth. It was clear. It was like the sun.

He was tired. He was very tired.

"I am not leaving," Thomas said.

The man nodded.

"Good," the man said. "Stay."

The man stood up. He walked to the door. He opened it.

"Good night, Bradshaw."

"Good night."

The man left. The door closed.

Thomas sat in the chair. He did not move. He did not breathe.

The night was long. The dark was deep.

He thought of Margaret. He thought of her hand. It was cold. It was small.

He thought of the boy. The boy was still there. He was still sleeping.

Thomas got up. He walked to the bed. He looked at the boy.

"Are you awake?" Thomas asked.

The boy opened his eyes. He looked at Thomas.

"Yes."

"Who are you?"

"I am no one."

"No one."

"Yes."

Thomas felt a surge. It was anger. It was fear.

"Get out."

"I cannot."

"Then I will throw you out."

The boy did not move. He sat up. He looked at Thomas.

"You cannot," the boy said.

Thomas grabbed the boy. He lifted him. The boy was light. He was like a bird.

Thomas threw him. The boy hit the wall. He fell to the floor.

He did not scream. He did not cry.

He lay there. He was still.

Thomas stood over him. His hands were shaking. His heart was pounding.

He looked at the boy. He saw the eyes. They were open. They were empty.

Thomas felt sick. He felt cold.

He looked at the door. It was closed.

He looked at the window. It was open. The wind was howling.

He picked up the boy. He carried him to the door. He opened the door.

He threw the boy into the hall.

The boy hit the floor. He rolled. He stopped.

Thomas closed the door. He locked it.

He went to the window. He looked out.

The depot was dark. The lights were off.

He saw a shape. It was moving. It was running.

He watched it. It ran to the edge. It stopped. It turned.

It looked at him.

Then it disappeared.

Thomas sat down. He put his head in his hands.

He waited.

He waited for the sound. He waited for the knock.

It came.

It was soft. It was three knocks.

Thomas stood up. He walked to the door.

He opened it.

The man was there. The doctor. He was smiling.

"Welcome back," the man said.

Thomas looked at him. He saw the truth. It was final.

He did not speak. He stepped aside.

The man entered. He walked to the bed. He sat down.

"You are ready," the man said.

Thomas looked at the room. He looked at the crack. He looked at the light.

He nodded.

"Yes," Thomas said.

He sat down. He closed his eyes.

He felt the weight. It was heavy. It was warm.

He let it go.

The light faded. The sound stopped.

He was alone.

He was free.